Gra'tua Bounty Hunter Kandosii!
by The Real Shock Wave
Summary: Follow the adventures of two Mandalorian mercenaries, a seductive Twi'lek con artist, a spice-addicted surgeon wanted by the law, a Gand mystic, an orphan from Coruscant's undercity, and a Corellian pilot trying to make their way in the universe.
1. Wing Ding Jubilee Wheels

Buruk's stomach growled as he sat motionless at the controls of his ship, the _Bes'uliik_, as it floated aimlessly through the Besh Gorgon system; the _Pursuer_-class enforcement ship was out of fuel, dead in space with its inertia taking it on an outbound vector. _It seemed like such a simple job…_ he thought, staring blankly into the void through the transparisteel viewport.

He'd been offered five thousand credits a week to work security for the Grand Casino, the most upscale and expensive hotel-resort on the _Wheel_. He was a hardened mercenary, open warfare was his bread and butter, and this had looked like easy credits; spend a few weeks making sure the galaxy's obscenely rich didn't get into any trouble with the desperate and downtrodden, then collect his pay and get back on Kex's trail before it even got cold. _Just goes to show that I'm _ori'buyce, kih'kovid_; all helmet, no head._

Mandalorians were always in high demand when someone needed protection, and their value had only gone up after word of what happened at Galidraan had gotten around. Of course they weren't really as scarce as people believed but the appearance of such benefited their bargaining position, and no true _Mando'ad_ would go and spoil things for everyone else by revealing something as trivial as the truth.

Besh Gorgon was a mere hyperspace hop across the Mid Rim from Nar Shadaa, where Buruk had been running down penny-ante fugitives for weeks trying to finance his search for Kex. He saw the ad for freelance security and jumped on it, "acquiring" the slightly used _Pursuer_-class from a sleazy ship dealer who'd tried to swindle him. Upon arrival on the _Wheel_ he was glad his helmet shielded the awestruck look on his face as he surveyed the high vaulted ceilings of the luxury hotels and casinos, their lobbies filled with lush gardens of rare plants, glistening water fountains, and gleaming onyx floors. He tried stifling a chuckle as his boot spurs clicked against those floors, undoubtedly scuffing them and leaving the staff distraught, the menacing glare of his T-shaped visor keeping them from raising a fuss.

The job interview had been short; all Buruk had had to do was throw open his cloak and reveal the _beskar'gam_ and two heavy blaster pistols he wore and the _Wheel_'s administrator hired him on the spot. Buruk almost got the impression the man was in a hurry to get him out of the office. Well, there was no accounting for taste, after all. A pair of burly guards, a Gran and a Rodian, showed him to his suite and again Buruk was surprised by its opulence. The majority of the room was sitting space with a large sofa and holoprojector, several plush chairs, a desk with a built-in datapad, and several bright glow-lamps, with the bed draped in shimmersilk sheets at the back, near a transparisteel door that opened out onto a balcony overlooking the _Wheel_'s high-income sector. Shab, he'd thought, _High demand indeed…_

The main floor of the Grand Casino was divided into various themed rooms that catered to several species, each one a cacophony of flashing lights and ringing sirens from the multitude of gaming apparatuses, from sabaac and pazaak tables, to chance cube pits and jubilee wheels. But the vast majority of the casino's income seemed to come from the rows upon rows of brightly lit credit games, where dozens of extremely territorial retirement-age beings sat stooped on their benches, feeding a never-ending stream of credits into their chosen bandits in hopes of matching those four precious diamonds on the holodisplays. Buruk always shook his head silently at them and continued his circuit of the hotel.

The first few days actually had been as easy as he'd expected. Then _she_ showed up. A female Twi'lek, violet-skinned, her intricately tattooed lekku draped casually over her shoulders where their tips writhed invitingly over the swell of her breasts, had been playing the same jubilee wheel for hours. She'd been winning far too frequently to be pure chance but apparently didn't think the management would notice the small bets she kept placing. Buruk had been ordered to confiscate any electronics she might be carrying and kindly escort her out.

Before walking up to her, he made sure to scan her description in his datapad; one never knew what they might find on someone. What came up not only pleased him, but nearly sent his heart leaping through his chest plate; Lynli Vairn, wanted for murdering a Black Sun vigo and grand larceny, was worth twenty thousand credits for live capture.

Returning the datapad to a pouch on his belt, he stepped silently behind the Twi'lek and said, "Excuse me miss, but it's time for you leave." His voice sounded flat and cruel as it filtered through his helmet.

Vairn straightened and turned slowly to face him; she was exceedingly attractive and the way she looked at Buruk made him blush behind his mask. She pouted and said, "Oh can't I have just one more turn? Please?" She batted her eyelashes at him while her lekku twitched suggestively.

Injecting a smile into his voice, he said, "You know, now that you mention it, I'd like to play a little game myself."

A smile spread across her face, as she stepped in close and ran a finger over the edge of his visor. "What'd you have in mind?"

"I was thinking something involving a pair of binder cuffs and a lot of time alone together," he answered.

"Mmm, my kind of game." She stepped in even closer, pressing her body against his, and Buruk was able to slap the binder cuffs securely around her wrists. "Hey! What's the big idea?" she demanded.

"Twenty thousand credits," he replied evenly. "You're my kind of woman, Lynli Vairn." She made a sharp intake of breath at the mention of her name and her eyes went hard, like a caged animal looking for the way out. Putting a hand on her shoulder he spun her roughly around and began leading her toward the casino exit, several patrons looking up from their tables to stare at the spectacle. Even out where they were more common, bounty hunters were rarely a welcome sight.

As he marched her past a sabaac table, she took her one, desperate, chance. Lurching over the table, Lynli grabbed a double handful of credit chips in her bound hands and spun around, hurling them in Buruk's face in an explosion of colored plast, and took off running. Giving chase, he shouldered his way through the crowds of clientele that scrambled for the spilled credits as the Twi'lek vaulted over a railing and ducked low between two rows of credit games.

Buruk growled a curse and dove over the railing, in hot pursuit of his quarry. He followed her through a side door that led to a staircase—_Who even uses stairs anymore?_ he wondered as he thundered up after her. He hadn't memorized the casino's layout, but he thought she was leading him toward the gantries over one of the large performance halls… maybe.

He was close. The stairwell opened up into a series of catwalks far above an arena surrounding a sunken pit with an earthen floor. Dozens of spotlights and holocameras mounted on robotic arms snaked around the scaffolds, attaining the optimum viewing angle of the fighting beasts below and turning the catwalks into a constantly shifting obstacle course. Lynli Vairn was nowhere in sight.

Buruk cautiously crept forward, cape thrown back and one hand resting on the butt of a blaster, scanning for any sign of movement aside from the booms. A flicker at his peripherals caught his attention and he turned to see her swinging straight toward him, the chain of her binder cuffs looped around the arm of a holocam. Catching him completely by surprise, she planted both feet squarely in his chest and kicked him off the walkway to plummet to the ground.

As he fell, Buruk mentally berated himself for leaving his jetpack aboard his ship. _Osik!_ he thought, before hitting the dirt hard, his armor doing little to cushion the fall. He ignored the pain, leapt to his feet, and quickly caught his bearings. His situation had not improved at all.

Inside the pit, a wampa was battling a Tatooine Howler, to the crowd's thunderous applause. Pit fighting had always been a lucrative opportunity for gambling, and from the frantic waving of markers in the spectators' hands, this particular match was no exception. The two creatures looked nearly identical, shaggy coats, sharp claws, and long curving tusks, that they could have been the same, save the howler's thinner, brown fur. Even their reaction to the intruder in their midst was the same. They turned their massive furry heads, small black eyes gleaming with hate behind mops of dirty, matted fur.

The Mandalorian backed steadily away, hands slowly moving toward his blasters. As the beasts lunged so too did he, tumbling forward while drawing each weapon and firing on both attackers simultaneously. Rolling into a crouch, he peered back to see the howler lying dead in a pool of blood, a gaping wound in its throat. The wampa, however, staggered upright, a patch of blood spreading from its left side; he'd only grazed it. Bringing both weapons to bear, he finished the beast off with a pair of rapid shots to its chest. The crowd howled its approval and began applauding as he stalked out of the arena.

Making his way through the pens below, Buruk wracked his brain to think where Vairn would go now. She had to be heading for the docks; it was the only place she could find a way off the _Wheel_. Presently, he broke into a full run. The throngs of passersby parted around him, wary of being trampled by a charging Mandalorian.

The docking bays were even more crowded than the main causeways and Buruk found himself nearly swept away in the sea of life, shouldering his way past several beings who were more reluctant the get out of his way, menacing T-shaped visor or not. His head turned at each glimpse he caught of a pair of brain tails, but with no luck.

A crash several meters away caught his attention; turning his head he spotted a row of swoop bikes in front of a pub off the main causeway, the source of the commotion. Making his way closer, he heard a familiar voice cry, "I said get your hands off, you Hutt slime!" It was her!

Buruk cautiously peered through the doorway into the dimly lit cantina and spotted Vairn being harassed by a group of punks who all wore the same red leather leggings, clearly an overt sign of gang affiliation. One of them appeared to be making good use of Buruk's binders, grabbing the chain and pulling the Twi'lek in close to him. "Come on doll-face, how about a little kiss?" he sneered, yanking her into his arms and puckering his lips. She rewarded him with a pair of binder cuffs across the mouth. Buruk snickered.

"Damn it!" the gang member yelled, throwing her back and leaping to his feet, a vibroblade appearing in his hand. "I'm gonna make you pay for that, girlie!" He brandished the blade, inexpertly by Buruk's estimation, and came at her. He was thrown sideways by the Mandalorian gauntlet that slammed into his temple.

_At least the _di'kut _managed to hold onto the knife_, Buruk thought as the bar went still. Aloud, he said, "I'm afraid she's out of spare creds, _mir'osik_." Stepping between Vairn and the other punks, he put a hand on the butt of a blaster pistol, ready to draw, and began backing her toward the exit.

"You made a big mistake, Mando," the gang's spokesman warned, sitting up and rubbing his face. "You just made enemies with Captain Tyrrel's Redlegs."

Buruk snorted; these pirates just loved their military titles. Once he and the girl passed the threshold, he turned and guided her toward one of the swoop bikes. "Get on," he ordered.

"Are you crazy?" she demanded. "You think I'm just going to let you take me in?"

Throwing one leg over the saddle, he looked at her and replied, "Either you come with me, or you stay and chat with our new friends." For a moment she actually seemed to weigh her options. Then she hopped on the bike with him and he gunned the accelerator. Less than a second later, the whole gang poured out of the pub and took off in pursuit.

The _Wheel_ didn't offer much space for high speed chases the way Coruscant or Nar Shadaa did, but there were still plenty of twists and turns to throw their stomachs into their throats. The Redlegs soon opened fire on them, taking potshots with hand blasters, hoping to hit one of the two riders. _I should have had her sit in front_, Buruk thought as he yanked the handlebars hard to the right, screaming down a narrow alleyway. _My armor would at least absorb a shot or two_. Luckily these punks couldn't seem to shoot straight.

As they hurtled through the traffic lanes, sentients dove for cover in all directions. At last they came to a loading dock inhabited almost entirely by droids. "Take the controls!" Buruk shouted back at Lynli and leaned to the side, pointing his left gauntlet at the oncoming gang members.

"What!" she screamed back in astonishment, grabbing frantically for the handlebars as he released them.

With help from his helmet's built in rangefinder, he took careful aim on the lead swoop and fired the missile launcher mounted on his gauntlet. The projectile shrieked toward its target so fast, the rider barely had time to widen his eyes before it struck his vehicle and detonated. The swoop blossomed into an expanding fireball that peppered the rest with shrapnel as they flew through the resulting debris cloud and veered off crazily from their course. Satisfied, Buruk returned to the controls and let a big grin spread across his face.

After a few more twists, turns, and switchbacks to shake off any remaining pursuers, they eventually returned to the docking bay. Safely aboard the _Bes'uliik_ with the stolen swoop bike in the hold, Buruk set the ship for departure while Vairn sulked in the copilot's seat, still cuffed. Removing his helmet, he flung his long braided ponytail from around his neck where it had been wrapped like a scarf, and looked over at her. "Well, that was fun," he said, getting up. "Now, allow me to show you to your cell, madam."

Looking up at him appealingly, she twitched her lekku over her breasts and said, "I can't thank you enough for saving me from that swoop gang… And here we are, just you and me, and a pair of binders…" She smiled up at him and he couldn't help but feel tempted. "Why let jail spoil a potentially romantic evening?"

She stood and pressed herself against him, her head-tails curling up over his shoulders, and he could feel her breath on his neck. Buruk drank in her perfume; he couldn't smell it before with his helmet on, but it was intoxicating. He hadn't smelled a woman this good in a long time. The last thing he recalled as she kissed him were her hands reaching up from around her back and encircling him, no longer held in the binder cuffs.

He'd awoken an hour later on the cockpit deck with a splitting headache. She'd dumped all the fuel, set the ship on an outbound course from the system, and emptied all the credits from his safe. All she'd left him was a note written on flimsiplast and pinned to the control panel that said, "Thanks for the great time, 'heart' Lynli". With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Buruk just stared through the viewport at the open reaches of space slowly heading his way.

He was shaken out of his stupor by a voice coming from the comlink. "Pursuer enforcement ship _Bes'uliik_, this is the Stellar Rescue tug _Tow Truck Seven_; please respond."

Confused, Buruk blinked and then keyed the comm and answered, "This is _Bes'uliik_, _Tow Truck Seven_; boy, am I glad to see you!"

"Roger _Bes'uliik_, we got an anonymous tip there was a ship in trouble out here. Can we offer you a hand?"

Not caring that he had no way to pay for the towing service, Buruk answered in the affirmative. Folding up the note, he stashed it in one of his belt pouches and thought, _This is _so_ not over,_ aruetii_... not by a long shot._


	2. A Coffin Full of Credits

_The boy was crying. He coughed and shuddered with each gulp of tainted air as the smoke from the burning fields stung his throat. Everything had happened so fast; the crops were on fire and it spread to the house, Papa had been running around everywhere, and Mama had rushed the boy outside just as the roof of their home collapsed. Papa hadn't come out yet and Mama was holding onto him so tight while she ran, and then somehow she was gone too. He was so confused, he didn't know what was going on, and he was _scared!

_"Mama… Papa…" he called hoarsely as the fires began to die out. Still no one answered his pleas. He shivered despite the blistering heat. _Mama went to go find Papa,_ he told himself. _She went to get him and bring him back._ He began to cry again._

_Then, like a phantom, a tall man stepped out of the smoke. He was followed by a slightly shorter, rodent-faced man with wild eyes who carried a rifle. The boy turned to run away but the tall man caught him easily, threw his arms around the boy, and held him tight. The boy squirmed and whined like a frightened animal, desperate to escape._

_"Shhh… shhhh…" the tall man whispered. "_Udesii_…" Finally the boy gave up, having worn himself out. The man turned him around and stood him up to get a good look at him. He was a handsome man, with long black hair and a square jaw. He wore black battle armor with a red cape that flapped in the wind behind him. As he looked the boy up and down, his eyes softened and he said, "What's your name, _ad'ika_?"_

_The boy sniffed back more tears and answered, "Buruk… Buruk Kelborn."_

_"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, _Bur'ika_, but…" The tall man paused, hesitant to deliver the devastating news. "Your parents are both dead, son."_

_Buruk was too young to really understand what that meant. All he really knew was that Mama and Papa were gone and they'd never come back to him. Fresh tears welled up in his eyes and he wiped them away furiously. The man hugged him tightly and even the cold hardness of his armor somehow comforted to the boy. He rocked him back and forth gently and patted his back until the crying fit passed, then held him out at arms length. Standing, he said, "_Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad_… I know your name as my child."_

_He then reached down and picked Buruk up, carrying him. Buruk nuzzled the man and received a pat on the head as they headed off. "Just call me _Tor'buir_. I'm going to take good care of you."_

_He was only four years old._

###

Buruk's eyes opened as the hyperdrive proximity warning woke him from the dream. Iba'ge'hutuun_,_ he thought absently. Though he owed the man everything, he preferred not to think about his adoptive father, Overlord Vizsla. He had more important matters to occupy his thoughts, for instance taking his ship, the _Bes'uliik_, out of hyperspace.

Making his way to the cockpit, he reflected on just how he'd wound up here. A slinky little _chakaarla _Twi'lek girl with a big bounty on her head had drugged him, robbed him, and set him adrift in the Besh Gorgon system. He'd been sloppy; it was… embarrassing.

With a grunt, he threw himself into the pilot's chair and pulled back on the hyperdrive lever, collapsing the kaleidoscoping hyperspace tunnel into a billion parallel lines that shrank into pinpricks of light, the distant stars of the galaxy. Up ahead was Zonju V, an arid, little, sparsely-populated frontier world, right where he'd calculated. He'd been forced to come here by that little thief; he was completely tapped out and needed to make quick credits. The capital city of Zoronhed happened to host a quick draw tournament with a twenty-five hundred credit cash prize. Buruk could almost taste the brazed nerf he'd have for his first meal after winning that contest; his stomach complained at the thought.

Buruk frowned; _What I wouldn't do for some plain old _gihaal_ right now…_ he thought woefully. _Hell, I'd even eat a womprat if it was cooked._

Setting the ship down on the outskirts of the city, he activated the self-defense systems and took off on his swoop bike, the only thing that Vairn hadn't stolen from him. Having decided against going into town in his distinctive Mandalorian armor, he wore a simple pair of black trousers, brown leather boots, a blue shirt, and a tan nerf-hide vest. Only one of his custom blaster pistols hung on his belt and his long red braid trailed behind him as he sped across the rocky terrain toward Zoronhed.

As frontier towns went, Zonju V's capital was unimpressive. The shops and homes were constructed of local sandstone, the people were dressed mostly in homespun garments, and both looked like they had weathered many a dust storm. Buruk floated his swoop leisurely along the unpaved roads, catching sidelong glances from the myriad passersby, mostly humans but with a few rough-looking Zabrak and Twi'leks, until parking in front a cantina.

Buruk paused in the open doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light within. This place was definitely behind the technological times, judging by the swinging doors at the entrance and the old rotary blade fan that slowly swirled the drifting smoke of a dozen narcotic substances. None of the patrons looked up as he entered and sat down. "What can I get you?" asked the grizzled Besalisk bartender, as he waddled up to him.

"Some food," Buruk answered simply, then added, "and something to drink."

The four-armed being went behind the bar and spooned a ladle of meat and potato stew into a bowl with one set of hands while raising a pitcher to a glass with the other.

"No water," the Mandalorian called out. "Black ale." The Besalisk shrugged and put down the pitcher and glass and brought over a glass bottle with the bowl of stew. "I'm afraid I can't pay you right away," Buruk said, taking up a spoon as the bartender laid them down before him.

The bartender snorted. "You're here for that quick draw contest, ain't ya?" When Buruk didn't answer, he continued, "Of course you are. You types are the only ones that come here anymore. Killing's all you're good at."

"A man's got to make a living," Buruk replied without looking up from his meal.

"Dying's not much of a living," the bartender countered. "Forget the bill; consider it a last meal for a doomed man." He let out a low chuckle.

Buruk swallowed a mouthful of stew. "That supposed to be a warning not to enter the contest?"

"Oh no, not at all," the bartender said placatingly. "I just thought you should know there's a real ace gunman who's won this here contest four years in a row and is just itching to make it five."

Buruk merely grunted and lifted another spoonful of stew to his mouth.

"A crazy Rodian by the name of Eight-Second Koovo. Ain't a sentient within ten sectors can outdraw him. He can shoot the wings off a flitter at fifty Wookiee paces. You haven't got a prayer." He chuckled again as Buruk took a sip of his ale.

"There a room upstairs?" he asked, swallowing.

"Yes, but no one ever stays here," the bartender answered. "This ain't a town."

"Funny, it has an uncanny resemblance."

The Besalisk frowned, his sensory whiskers bristling. "This is a haven for outlaws and hired guns like you. Hardly anyone works; the real money to be made here's in killing. You saw women on your way into town? Those weren't women, those were widows. This here's a town of nothing but widows, orphans, and killers."

Finishing his meal, Buruk asked, "How much for the room upstairs?"

"Twenty credits a day."

"You'll have to bill me."

"Of course," the bartender said skeptically. "But naturally I won't be collecting since you're gonna to be dead very soon."

"Whatever you say, _ner vod_," Buruk called back to him as he stepped back out of the cantina.

Everywhere he went that day, Buruk scrounged for information on the tournament contestants, deciding the most challenging opponents would be a Wookiee named Gorrrhyn and a Zabrak named Kahtika Lukmer. And of course he heard plenty about Eight-Second Koovo. It was mostly nothing more than conflicting rumors about who he was, where he came from, and just how many men he'd killed, but everyone agreed he was the best gunfighter in the sector.

It wasn't long until he met Koovo himself. Buruk stood at the bar in the cantina, sipping another bottle of ale when a noxious odor assaulted his nostrils, making him wish for the air scrubbers built into his helmet. "I hear you ask questions 'bout me," spoke a high-pitched, warbling voice in thickly accented Basic.

Buruk wrinkled his nose and placed the bottle on the bar, turning to find the little green stinkbug standing before him. "You Koovo?" he asked noncommittally.

"I be Eight-Second Koovo," the Rodian answered. "Who you?"

"I'm the Man With No Name," Buruk replied easily.

"Ha ha, you funny!" Koovo replied, without even a hint of amusement in his tone. Placing a suckered hand on the butt of his blaster, he said, "You be even funnier with hole in stomach."

Buruk snorted, looking him in his multifaceted eyes. Then, without a word, he turned his back on the Rodian, picked up his ale, and walked away, leaving Koovo quivering with rage at being ignored. At the end of the bar, the Besalisk, Deacon Fing, whispered, "That ain't a good idea, I' him all riled up like that…"

Buruk gave him a sarcastic smile. "You worried about me, Deac? I'm touched."

"I'd just rather believe I might actually get paid."

"Right; see you tomorrow," Buruk chuckled as he ascended the stairs to his room above the cantina.

###

Bright and early the next morning, the contest began. It seemed all the scum on Zonju V turned out for the shot to win twenty-five hundred credits; Buruk saw Humans, Twi'leks, Zabrak, Rodians, Trandoshans, the Wookiee Gorrrhyn, and even an Iridorian made an appearance. He didn't recognize anyone, so there were certainly no Mandalorians among the contenders. They all gathered on the main stretch of road in the center of town, just down the block from Deacon's cantina, milling about and socializing until the first match began.

Buruk noticed a familiar stench wafting its way toward him on the breeze and turned to find Koovo heading toward him. "You die today," the Rodian stated flatly. "Hope it me kills you." Buruk merely smiled back as the alien went on his way.

A loud whistle shrieked through the crowd and the first contestants stepped forward, a human and a Zabrak, standing nearly twenty meters apart. For a near infinite moment, they stood staring each other down until finally they went for their blasters. The shots rang out over the silent onlookers and the human toppled face-first to the dirt.

The victorious Zabrak returned to the crowd and the next pair stepped out into the street. This time neither contestant went down on the first shot and they were forced to scramble for cover, taking potshots at each other until finally one managed to hit the other.

When Koovo stepped forward, his opponent was dead before his blaster even managed to leave its holster; the Rodian really was incredibly fast. As he left the street, he fixed the Mandalorian with a bug-eyed glare.

Next it was Buruk's turn to square off against a Trandoshan. The big lizard's claw hovered over the butt of his blaster, orange eyes narrowed to slits as they bored into Buruk's. The Mandalorian stood stock still, sizing up his opponent; his hand hung loose at his side, nowhere near his own weapon. A breeze whistled through the street, kicking up dust between the combatants and sending a shiver up several spines. Tension hung over the crowd like a thick blanket, stifling everyone's breath until the Trandoshan could no longer stand it and went for his blaster.

Buruk's hand darted to his opposite hip, pulling the pistol from its cross-draw holster and squeezing the trigger as the barrel came in line with his opponent. The lizard crumpled to the ground, clutching his abdomen and hissing in pain. Buruk watched as he struggled the raise his blaster, shot him again, then turned and walked back into the crowd.

The tournament continued into the next day as the number of contestants slowly dwindled, Koovo again dominating his opponents and taunting Buruk with promises of death. Buruk decided to probe him a little at the cantina, asking him how he was so good. "If you want kill a sentient, you aim for heart," Koovo replied proudly. "Or same organ in nonhuman. No aim for heart, then no kill."

That night, Buruk wandered the streets of Zoronhed, unable to sleep. He didn't see the pair of shadows trailing him down an alley or the club that came down on the back of his skull, sending him sprawling into the sand. He managed to stay conscious, thankfully, and rolled to his feet, reflexively taking up a defensive combat stance. These _shabla_ punks wouldn't get another easy shot at him.

"Eight-Second Koovo sends his regards," one of them said, then lunged at Buruk, swinging the club at him. Buruk ducked the blow and threw his fist into his attacker's stomach, knocking the wind out of him. The second man pulled a stun baton and jabbed it into Buruk's ribs. All the conditioning in the galaxy couldn't save him its paralyzing effects and he blacked out.

###

Buruk had no idea how long he'd been out but when he awoke his head was throbbing. His body ached and jerked occasionally and it didn't take him long to realize he was being beaten relentlessly. His right eye had swollen shut, blood ran down his chin, and he was sure at least two of his ribs were broken. Koovo's henchmen were certainly being thorough.

"All right, that's enough," one of them said. "We don't want him losing consciousness again. Koovo wants him to feel while he's suffering." Chuckling, the two turned and sauntered off.

Alone, Buruk could finally take stock of his situation. He was in a plain storeroom, four walls and one door. The room was full of shipping crates and the overhead lights flickered annoyingly. One crate hung from a ceiling crane which had a control box on the wall left of the door. Buruk dragged himself toward one of the crates, leaving a small trail of blood across the floor, and peered inside. Nestled within the packing foam sat a cache of repeating blasters, military hardware normally restricted from private ownership. A smaller box also sat inside the crate, in which Buruk found a pair of thermal detonators. Pocketing one, he formed a plan in his head and quickly crawled to the controls for the overhead hoist. There, he repositioned the hanging crate, and waited.

He was rewarded an hour later as he heard footsteps approaching. He scrunched down behind a crate that shielded him from view of the doorway and clutched the control box in sweaty, bleeding hands. The door slid open and the pair of thugs stepped into the room. "Ready for your next beating, sharpshooter?" one of them laughed.

_Come on, just a little more…_ Buruk mentally urged.

The other noticed Buruk wasn't where they had left him. "Where'd he go?" he asked cautiously, stepping farther into the room. Buruk hit the crane release and the heavy shipping crate full of weaponry fell to the ground, crushing the brutes beneath it with a loud crash.

He glared hatefully at the ruined crate and the equally ruined body parts poking out from beneath it. "_6en u shab'rudur Mando'ade, burc'ye_," he growled. Then, tossing the control box aside, he dragged himself out the open door; it wouldn't be long until someone came to investigate the commotion. He tried pulling himself to his feet but to no avail. He had to get to his ship and the medical supplies onboard.

The storeroom had been part of a larger warehouse complex; Buruk surmised Koovo made a living as a gunrunner when he wasn't killing for sport. He made his way through a loading dock and thanked the _manda_ one of the rear doors was open as he crawled out into the warm night air and made his way toward Deacon's cantina.

Outside, the big Besalisk was just closing up shop when he spotted the Mandalorian scrabbling toward him. "What happened to you?" he blurted out, rushing to the fallen man's side. "Are you all right?"

"Just get me out of here," Buruk instructed. "Get me to my ship." Deacon picked him up off the ground, cradling him in two of his massive arms, and ran for his speeder. Confident he was safe, Buruk let himself slip back into unconsciousness.

He awoke to Deacon shaking his shoulder, saying, "Come on, you ain't dead are you?"

Opening his eyes warily, he muttered, "Not yet, but I'm getting there." They were parked outside the _Bes'uliik_. "Take me to the entry hatch. It's retinal coded and booby trapped." Obediently, the Besalisk hefted Buruk and carried him up to the ship's airlock. There was a low beeping sound as it scanned his retinal pattern, then with a hiss of escaping gasses, the door cycled open and allowed them entrance.

"There's a storage room on the second level, first door on your right. It has first-aid kits and bacta," he instructed Deacon. The alien nodded and set his charge down gently on the deck, heading for the lifttube. He returned shortly and began cleaning Buruk's wounds, applying bacta bandages to his eye and around his midsection, stripping off the man's bloody shirt.

When he finished, Deacon stepped back to inspect his handiwork. "You'd better get back to town," Buruk said. "Pretend like you haven't seen me."

"Sure you'll be okay?" the big alien asked.

Buruk chuckled, coughed, and placed a hand on his side. "Never better," he assured him.

###

That morning, Buruk's eyes snapped open to the sound of his personal comlink beeping at him. Answering the device, he sat up gingerly in bed, groggily saying, "Hello?"

On the small screen, he recognized Deacon's young Rodian kitchen boy. "You've got to help!" the lad cried. "They've got Deacon, they want to know what he did with you."

Buruk cut the connection and leaned back, rubbing his eyes. "_Osik_," he groaned, climbing out of bed.

###

Deacon's four large hands were bound with synthrope behind his back. Another looped around his neck, the end tied tightly to a post in front of the cantina where he stood on a short stool, practically up on his toes. Koovo's thugs had worked him over almost as well as they had Buruk when he'd returned from the man's ship. They'd tried to get him to talk, to say where he'd taken Buruk, but he continued to resist.

Eight-Second Koovo stalked up and down the street, challenging bystanders to face him. No one stepped forward. Deacon blinked his eyes wearily as the Rodian turned to a well-dressed human and said, "Well Governor, I guess that means I win the tournament. I've defeated every contestant there was—"

An explosion rocked the ground, nearly tipping Deacon off the stool. Several blocks away a pillar of oily black smoke curled into the sky as people screamed and ran. The wind caught the plume and blew it toward the gang, blanketing the street in a dark haze. "Not quite every contestant, Koovo," a voice shouted out of the gloom. Then, like a phantom, Buruk Kelborn stepped out of the smoke, clad in a brown cloak that whipped about in the breeze. "There's still one more. Oh, by the way. You need a new warehouse."

Koovo and his gang eyed him furiously as he approached. Buruk stopped and spat on the ground. "Let the bartender down."

With his characteristic lightning speed, Koovo yanked his blaster out of his holster and fired, hitting Buruk square in the chest. The human crumpled to the ground without another word. Koovo snorted and turned back to the governor. "What's the matter, Koovo," a voice called out. The Rodian spun around, multifaceted eyes going wide. Buruk strode leisurely toward them. "Losing your touch?"

Koovo fired again, and Buruk jerked backward but remained on his feet and kept walking. "Are you afraid, Koovo? Want to shoot to kill, you'd better hit the heart. Your own words, Koovo."

This time the Rodian took careful aim and fired again and again, knocking the human on his back. For a moment he stayed down, but climbed right back to his feet and kept walking. Dumbfounded, Koovo stared in confusion, sweating nervously. Was this man indestructible? "The heart, Koovo… Don't forget the heart… Aim for the heart or you'll never stop me."

Furious, Koovo opened fire several times, draining his blaster's powerpack and cackling like a madman, until Buruk hit the dirt again, ten meters away. Gasping for breath, the Rodian wiped the back of his hand across his brow and spat in the human's direction. Then, to his horror, the man got up again. "Why won't you die?" Koovo screamed.

With a smirk, Buruk threw back his cloak and revealed his Mandalorian body armor, several scorch marks blackening the left breastplate. The thugs glared at him hatefully as he stood before them. Then they went for their blasters and Buruk pulled his own weapon, shooting each one in turn. They fell to the ground around Koovo, every one of them dead, leaving their former employer looking about wildly.

The Rodian turned back to Buruk, staring at him in shock. Tossing Koovo a fresh powerpack, the Mandalorian said, "Let's finish this."

Koovo reloaded his blaster and the two combatants holstered their weapons, sizing each other up for the final duel. Their eyes bored into each other's, Koovo's snout twitching while Buruk's face could have been carved from stone. Sweat trickled down Koovo's scaly face and he went for his blaster, but Buruk was quicker, drilling several shots into the Rodians right side. Koovo toppled over in a heap, chest rising and falling shallowly. Buruk adjusted his aim and shot the synthrope above Deacon's head and the Besalisk crashed unceremoniously to the ground. Spitting dust, the bartender growled, "Took you long enough!"

Buruk merely chuckled, holstered his blaster, and turned to the governor, holding out his hand, palm up. "I believe that makes me the winner. The prize money please?"


	3. Samba Bothawui

Somebody always wanted somebody else. That was an indisputable law of the galaxy that made the bounty hunting profession such a lucrative one. No matter where one went or where one looked, one could always find someone willing to pay to have someone specific either brought to them kicking and screaming, or killed in the attempt. That universal willingness, coupled with a lifetime spent as a soldier of fortune since the spry young age of four, made bounty hunting an easy choice to turn to when Buruk Kelborn found himself on Nar Shaddaa with naught but a name and a burning desire for vengeance. Anyone with a bit of familiarity with Mandalorian customs who looked at his sand-gold armor would know exactly what he sought.

Bounty hunting was nothing more than a way to make ends meet, financing his search as he turned the galaxy upside down in his quest. Buruk had no desire to gain a reputation as the best like some hunters did, he just wanted to get paid and be on his way, no ties and no regrets. He reserved his grudges only for the ten people he personally wanted dead, and that was a closed list.

On the other hand, somebody always wanted to escape from somebody else. That particular law of the galaxy was a natural extension of the first and it likewise made a career as a hunt saboteur a lucrative one. Fugitives invariably offered up everything they had to get away from the bounty hunter that was chasing them and most sentients were more than willing to accept the risk of eluding said hunter in order to take it from them.

Morran Risant was one such hunt saboteur and at the moment he was being a serious pain in Buruk's _shebs_. Six hours ago, he had picked up a Bothan spy called Nabok Bos'fro in the Meridian Sector who was on the run from a bigwig Bothan general by the name of Asryn Rynn'klo. She had posted a generous bounty of fifteen thousand credits on his head for live capture only. While information had been scarce, it seemed likely that Nabok had information he was reluctant to share with the general and wanted to sell to the highest bidder, most probably the Hutts.

Risant pushed his Skipray Blastboat for all it was worth, trying to shake off Buruk's pursuing _Bes'uliik_ in the Iderud Badlands, an asteroid field partially encased in the Iderud Nebula. The Blastboat spiraled around a massive space rock and Buruk pulled up just in time to avoid being skewered by a burst of lightning jolting through the clouds of ionized gas. Risant angled his ship's top-mounted laser turret in Buruk's direction and opened fire, peppering the space between them with sheets of emerald light.

Buruk jerked his controls, rolling out to port and pushed forward, gritting his teeth as he dodged the deadly energy. "You'll have to shoot straighter than that, Risant!" he called over the comlink.

"Maybe if you could fly straight, bucket-head," the saboteur snarled back, firing another burst that Buruk avoided by slipping around a shielding asteroid, the cannon strikes chewing up large chunks of rock.

Buruk's hands flew over his controls, dodging more space debris as he zeroed back in on his target. The tricky thing about flying through a nebula was that it tended to blind one's sensors, making it that much harder to navigate the asteroid field. So many things to split your attention, there was no way to concentrate on them all, so Buruk just flew by the seat of his pants, relying on luck to see him through. The Badlands were notorious for being dangerous and the amount of floating ship debris mixed among the asteroids gave silent testament to that. Hopefully neither of them would be added to the mix.

Buruk opened fire with his ship's ion cannon, sending bright blue needles toward the fleeing Blastboat. Risant inverted his ship and dove through a thicker cloud of gas, kicked over onto his starboard side, and plunged into a swirling electrical storm. Buruk gave chase, slipping from side to side to avoid the storm's lightning strikes. The Blastboat was nowhere to be seen. Osik_! He's disappeared!_ Buruk bounced a fist off the control panel in frustration.

Cutting back his engines he let himself drift slowly with the rest of the asteroids, peering into the swirling blue-green nebula as lightning occasionally lit up the clouds in eerie flashes. In spite of their lethality, the Badlands had a tranquil, almost dreamy aspect about them, a sense of enormity and ancient slumber.

_This would be a real peaceful place to set up a hidey-hole,_ he thought, his gaze tracking across the debris field. _It'd have to be in one of the bigger ones…_ Picking an asteroid roughly a hundred meters across, he angled on a crater large enough to accommodate Risant's ship and opened fire. The _Bes'uliik_'s twin laser cannons chewed long furrows out of the rock as he stitched the surface with a continuous assault. With the flick of a switch, he then armed the proton torpedo launcher and fired a single warhead into the crater and sat back to watch the show as a massive explosion rocked the asteroid.

Risant's voice then came over the comm, choked with static. "Knock… off, Kelborn! I…" He was cut off by a sharp burst of white noise. "… repeat, I surrender! You can have him!"

Suddenly a new voice cut into the transmission. "What? … can't just let… take me!" Apparently Nabok wasn't too thrilled about the double cross.

"Just let me go and you can have him," Risant repeated.

"Deal," Buruk answered, cutting the transmission.

###

Shab, _that torpedo really did a number on this hangar,_ Buruk thought as he climbed out of his ship, his Mandalorian armor sealed in case Risant decided to open the bay door to hard vacuum. The saboteur's Blastboat was lying on its side, one of its stabilizer foils twisted around the ship's main hull, and fluids pooled on the deck beneath it. Aside from that, part of the ceiling had sagged where support struts had buckled and threatened to collapse.

Risant met Buruk in the corridor outside the hangar, holding a blaster to the cuffed Nabok's head. "Hold it right there, Kelborn," he growled. "He's worthless dead so let's make sure you don't go shooting at either one of us."

"Please," Nabok wailed, squirming in the saboteur's grip while his fur rippled with terror. "Don't give me over to him! Don't let him take me back!"

"Shut it!" Risant yelled, jabbing the blaster barrel into the Bothan's temple. "I've got to look out for Number One, you know." Then, shoving Nabok forward, he slowly backed away, keeping his gun trained on the spy.

Buruk stepped around, placing himself between Risant and Nabok, shoving the Bothan along the corridor back to his ship. The saboteur followed in their wake and said, "Okay, I kept my end of the bargain, now what say you give me a lift to the next system, seeing as how you trashed my ship." Buruk just kept shoving Nabok along without a word. When they reached the _Bes'uliik_, Risant tried again. "Hey, you can't just leave me here! We had a deal!"

This time Buruk turned that menacing T-shaped visor toward the saboteur and countered, "The deal was I wouldn't kill you… I reckon you got yourself a bargain." With that, he stepped into the ship after Nabok and sealed the hatch, leaving Risant hopping mad in his own damaged hangar bay.

###

Over the next few hours Nabok tutored Buruk in the extensive vocabulary and varied nuances of Bothan cursing. From his cell, the spy expounded on topics that ranged from his captor's personal hygiene, to his unorthodox mating habits, to his questionable parentage. It was a truly in-depth lesson he wished to convey but eventually the bounty hunter lost interest as his guest began to repeat himself and wind down.

Buruk had just brought him a meal from the ship's galley when the Bothan fixed his golden eyes intently on his captor from where he sat scrunched up in the corner. When Buruk slid the tray through the hatch at the bottom of the door, he finally asked, "It's so easy for you, isn't? To just drag a being to their death and walk away, washing your hands of the whole thing?"

Buruk rolled his eyes beneath his helmet. _Typical,_ he thought. _Trying to send me on a guilt trip._ As he turned to go, Nabok ran up and grabbed the cell bars, shouting after him, "Just because you don't pull the trigger doesn't make you innocent! It's all blood money! _Blood money!_" As the lifttube door sealed behind him, Buruk removed his helmet and enjoyed the silence.

His enjoyment was cut short when the _Bes'uliik_ lurched violently, almost throwing him off his feet. "What the _shab_?" he growled, sprinting to the cockpit. Throwing himself into the pilot's chair, his eyes darted over the flashing indicator lights and there on his sensors he spotted the interdictor that had snatched him from hyperspace. It was a _Detainer_-class CC-2200 cruiser, lightly armed but escorted by a strike force of other ships, every one of them bearing the insignia of the Bothan Home Defense Fleet.

"Pursuer enforcement ship _Bes'uliik_, this is the _Magnanimous_," a haughty voice hailed over the comm. "You are harboring a known fugitive. On behalf of the Bothan Council, I order you to power down your weapons and shields and prepare to be boarded."

_The hell I will_, Buruk thought, pushing his ship into a sharp dive out of line of their heavy weapons. As he did so, a squadron of Z-95 Headhunters broke off from the taskforce in pursuit, opening fire on him. Lines of scarlet energy flashed by his canopy as his hands danced over the controls, struggling to break their target locks. He heeled over onto his starboard side and pulled the nose up, then jerked the ship around and dove, raking laser fire over a pair of Headhunters. One of the ships' wings snapped off and it went spiraling off course while the other's fuel cell detonated, engulfing it in fire.

Buruk spared a glance at his ship's navicomputer as it diligently tried to map a course out of the system. With the _Magnanimous_' gravity well projectors online, the gravitational field of the whole area had been drastically altered. He had to escape its artificial mass shadow before he could make the jump to hyperspace and his chances of that were looking pretty grim.

Another pair of fighters vectored in on him from the left. He inverted and sent the _Bes'uliik_ through a spiraling corkscrew that spoiled their strafing run and brought him up on one's tail. Arming his proton torpedo launcher, he sent a warhead streaking after it on a trail of blue flame. The Headhunter tried to evade, too late, and the torpedo shattered the fragile craft.

Suddenly the ship jerked and Buruk was thrown forward in his seat harness. "What in blazes…" he wondered aloud as his eyes searched the control panel. "Just great," he snarled, "they got a tractor beam on me." He had to work fast; that tractor beam would have him in their main hold in minutes. Luckily, as far as those fighter jocks were concerned, he was as good as caught, so they weren't likely to be itching their trigger fingers anymore. Powering down his lasers and shields like a good little prisoner, Buruk shunted the energy into the special capacitors he'd had installed in the _Bes'uliik_'s engines. Then, with a jab of his finger, he poured full power to his reverse thrusters, throwing him forward in the seat, and fired the proton torpedo launcher. The sudden jolt was enough to shake him loose of the tractor beam, which immediately reacquired its lock… on the torpedo, reeling it in and destroying the projector.

Bringing his shields back up, Buruk dove away from the interdictor at full speed, breaking away from the taskforce and escaping the _Magnanimous_' mass shadow. Yanking back on the hyperdrive lever, the stars stretched and the _Bes'uliik_ was gone in a flicker of pseudomotion.

###

Rear Admiral Guran Gir'fey stood fuming on the _Magnanimous_' bridge, all eyes on him as he stared out the viewport at the space the Pursuer enforcement ship had just vacated. He was most displeased, struggling to keep the anger from rippling through his blonde fur. Such a display of emotion before his subordinates would be most undignified and he'd already suffered enough embarrassment in front of them.

Turning to his first officer, he spoke in a low, half-threatening tone. "You tracked his outbound vector." It was not a question.

"Yes Admiral," the captain nodded.

"Good." The wheels were turning furiously in his mind, intent on remedying the situation. "Find out everything you can about that ship's owner, and take us to its most likely destination." Gir'fey's violet eyes flashed with anticipation. "I want that man and I want Nabok Bos'fro."

"Understood," the captain replied. "Shall I inform Fleet HQ of our situation?"

Gir'fey could see the wheels turning behind his first officer's eyes as well, the scheming little captain's desire to use this turn of events to discredit his superior and rise up in his place. He decided to throw him a bone. "Inform HQ that our informant was reliable but Bos'fro was intercepted before we could recover him. We are currently tracking his whereabouts and will report when we have him."

"Very good sir," the captain replied, nodding his head sharply in a military bow.

###

As soon as he left hyperspace, Buruk activated his comm on the secure frequency General Rynn'klo had given him. "All right, lady, what's the big idea sending an interdictor and its friends after me? Decide to renege on our deal?

Several seconds went by before a female voice purred, "What are you talking about, bounty hunter?"

Buruk snorted. "Don't play dumb with me, kitten, I just got jumped by a Bothan HDF taskforce who knew I was carrying Nabok Bos'fro."

"Where are you?" she asked.

"Far away from Kothlis, you can be sure of that!" Buruk shot back. "And I'm going to stay out of Bothan Space until I get some answers."

"I had nothing to do with that," she said simply. "I don't control what Fleet does. Just remember who's willing to pay to have Nabok brought to them."

Before he could respond, Rynn'klo cut the transmission. Buruk balled his hands into fists, quivering with impotent fury, then shouted, "_Shabla, etyc, nu'jate, aruetyc chakaar!_" while pounding his seat's armrests. After taking several deep breaths, he leaned back and rubbed his hands over his face. "_Haar'chak,_" he muttered. Damn it.

###

"Admiral," the captain said in a low tone as he stepped up beside his superior.

"Yes Captain?" Gir'fey asked, eyeing the first officer and keeping his voice equally low. The bridge crew had no business listening in on their conversation, after all.

"The ship is registered to one Buruk Kelborn, a bounty hunter."

"Not one I've heard of," the admiral snorted. "What else?"

"According to the Spynet, he's a Mandalorian, one of four that survived the massacre at Galidraan several months ago."

Gir'fey stroked his chin fur. "Interesting. This Kelborn fellow starts out as part of a mercenary army and falls immediately into bounty hunting. Perhaps we can lure him out of hiding by appealing to his purse in exchange for handing over Bos'fro. If all else fails, we can always entreat the Jedi to finish what they started on Galidraan. He is, after all, harboring a wanted criminal."

###

The comm beeped. For a moment Buruk stared dumbly, oblivious to the keening sound as he sat lost in thought. Then, sitting up with a start, he tapped the receive button and said, "Go ahead."

"Greetings Buruk Kelborn," a silky voice called. "I am Rear Admiral Guran Gir'fey of the Bothan Home Defense Fleet and commanding officer of the _Magnanimous_."

Buruk heaved a sigh. _Now what?_

"First, I'd like to congratulate you on your daring escape from my taskforce," Gir'fey continued. "Second, I would like to say how sorry I am our encounter came to blows."

"Yeah, your Headhunters looked real sorry to be shooting at me," Buruk sneered.

"Again, I apologize. I had no idea you were a legitimate bounty hunter, but now that I do, I wish to offer you the sum of thirty-five thousand in exchange for peacefully turning Nabok Bos'fro over to my custody."

Buruk sat back, blinking. _Fifteen thousand becomes thirty-five thousand… My little nest egg is growing._ "Let me think about it."

"Yes or no, Kelborn."

"Go to hell," Buruk snapped.

"Is that your answer?" Gir'fey asked pointedly.

"I'm thinking about it."

"Think hard," the Bothan warned.

Buruk stood from his seat and rode the lifttube down to the prisoner deck. Stopping in front of Nabok's cell, he asked, "Why are two different Bothan military officers offering two different bounties on your head?"

Nabok looked up at him with a puzzled look on his equine features. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"What do you know? What were you doing in the Meridian sector?"

"Spying," the Bothan sneered. "It's what I do."

"Look, you scroungey little _shab'uir_, I've got about this much patience left in me so either you tell me yourself or I can shoot you full of Bavo Six and let the truth serum do the talking. What's it going to be?"

Nabok sighed heavily, gathering his knees beneath his chin. "Do you know anything about the Death Seed plague?" he asked quietly. "It's a degenerative illness caused by insects about half a centimeter long, called drochs. What they do is they burrow into your skin and feed off your life force, mimicking your electrochemical fields and tissue composition so they don't show up on scans. It has a one hundred percent compatibility for cross-species infection and the only symptom displayed by victims is necrosis of the skin. Death occurs within half an hour to an hour in most adults." He shivered. "Bacta therapy only serves to accelerate the disease, as the healing process provides the drochs with a renewed energy source.

"Drochs are native to Nam Chorios in the Meridian sector where the Death Seed plague is held in check by the crystals that grow on the planet's surface," Nabok continued. "The crystals fragment sunlight which then weakens the drochs' electrochemical bonds, killing smaller specimens and rendering larger ones benign as they're absorbed into a host's body as nutrients. Only the crystals found on Nam Chorios have this effect. The only cure."

He stood from the floor of his cell and stepped up to the bars in front of Buruk. "I went to the Meridian sector, against both my better judgment and that of my wife, on orders to determine the military applications of the Death Seed plague. The Bothan Council wants it as a bargaining chip, a doomsday weapon to ensure Bothan Space's independence through mutually assured destruction. Of course, with the Spook crystals of Nam Chorios, it wouldn't be quite so mutual."

"Where does Admiral Gir'fey figure into this?" Buruk asked.

"He's the one who sent me there in the first place," Nabok answered. "He wants my data and will kill anyone who gets in his way. You, for instance."

"I see. He offered me thirty-five thousand to hand you over to him."

"You'd be sealing your fate if you did," Nabok pointed out. "He can't afford to let this information get around the galaxy at large."

Buruk turned to go, saying, "Maybe so, but that's an awful lot of money. Rather tempting. Maybe I can talk General Rynn'klo into upping her own offer."

Back on the bridge, he keyed the comm and said, "All right Admiral, you've got yourself a deal. Meet me at Void Station in two days to make the exchange. Kelborn out." Cutting the transmission before the admiral could respond, he immediately set course for the rendezvous with General Rynn'klo.

###

When Admiral Gir'fey looked to his first officer, the captain gave him a sharp nod, indicating the comlink trace had worked. Gir'fey knew the bounty hunter would never reveal his true destination to him and had thus taken precautions. "Well?" he asked, hands clasped behind his back.

"He's in the Hypori system, sir. You'll be pleased to know our slicers also managed to slip into his navicomputer and log his flight plan."

"Excellent work Captain. Where is he headed?"

With a satisfied ripple of his chocolate-colored fur, the captain replied, "Kothlis."

###

The planet Kothlis was largely oceanic with the many islands dotting its surface serving as scenic holiday resorts with kilometers of pristine white beaches. Having brought the _Bes'uliik_ in for a landing in the capital city of Tal'cara, Buruk lounged in a wicker chair beneath a parasol on one such beach, dressed in a pair of sandals, brown hemp shorts, and a loose-fitting red shirt with white flowers emblazoned on the fabric. With a tinted visor over his eyes and a brightly colored drink in his hand, he looked very much like a relaxing tourist.

In truth he was waiting at the assigned location to meet with General Rynn'klo to discuss turning Nabok over to her. Though he didn't expect trouble, he'd made sure to remove the vibrodagger from his gauntlet and slip it into a pocket on his shorts before leaving the ship, and his sun visor contained a heads-up display similar to the one on his Mandalorian helmet.

He heard sand shifting over the sound of crying avians as someone approached from his right and sat down in the chair next to him. Through the corner of his eye, Buruk saw a female Bothan in a yellow sun dress and a wide-brimmed straw hat. Taking a sip from his drink, he said, "Nice day for a walk on the beach."

"Only if you have a companion to accompany you," she replied, giving the proper countersign. "Where is he?"

"He's safe, kitten," Buruk answered. "He's on my ship, all snug in his cell. If you don't mind I'll take some answers before I hand him over."

Her voice chilled noticeably as she asked, "What would you ask of me, bounty hunter?"

"Why should I let you have him instead of Gir'fey?"

Rynn'klo's fur bristled at the mention of the Bothan admiral. "What has he offered you?"

"Thirty-five thousand, more than double what you're paying me."

A minute or two went by, the silence broken only the crash of the surf and the avians overhead. Then, she admitted, "I can't cover that. But rest assured, giving Nabok to him would be a grave error."

"Nabok told me about the Death Seed plague," Buruk said. "But seeing as how you and Gir'fey are both high-ranking officers in the Bothan military, it seems to me his info will go to the Council no matter what."

"You're wrong!" Rynn'klo hissed. "Nabok and I never wanted him to go into that cauldron of death called the Meridian sector!"

Buruk turned his head to look at her, then returned his gaze to the ocean. "He's your husband, isn't he?"

Her shoulders sagged, ever so slightly. "Yes." After another short pause, she said, "I'm with Spynet, just as he is. He's one of our best operatives, so good not even I could locate him myself if he chose to run. That's why I posted the bounty on him. With my position, I can help him disappear so that no one, not Gir'fey or even the whole of the Council would be able to prove he existed… or find his data. We just want out of this life."

Osik_,_ Buruk thought. What could he do? Thirty-five thousand credits would go a long way in locating Kex… but at the cost of ruining two people's lives forever? It was obvious to Buruk that once Gir'fey had that data, he would kill Nabok to keep him quiet. Rynn'klo would be left a widow, if the admiral even let her live at all, and any children they might have would be orphaned. _Damn! Why am I even thinking about this?_

Setting his drink down, Buruk stood and turned his back to the Bothan. Then, looking over his shoulder, he said, "Meet me at the holocam shop in Little Toydaria in two hours to make the exchange. Have the fifteen thousand ready in cash." As he stormed up the beach, he told himself, _Fifteen thousand is better than nothing. And they say virtue is its own reward._ He rolled his eyes and kept walking.

###

As Buruk poked around the holocam shop, trying to look like any ordinary customer, he made sure Nabok stayed close beside him. When he picked up a display model and pretended to inspect it more closely, the Bothan said in a low voice, "A wise choice, Master Kelborn."

"Not really," Buruk muttered, turning the camera over in his hands. "It's overpriced tourist junk with sub par zoom and negligible resolution. You might as well have a child draw your holiday snaps by hand."

"I meant your decision to return me to my Asryn," Nabok clarified, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

"I know what you meant," Buruk replied. "But you of all people should know what not to talk about in public. What kind of spy are you?"

"A spy no longer, thanks to you."

"Don't thank me yet, I still haven't been paid." He glanced at his chrono; it was almost time. When he'd gone back to his ship to retrieve Nabok, he'd also grabbed one of his blaster pistols and stashed it in the waistband of his shorts, hidden beneath his loose shirt. _Just hope I don't have to use it,_ he thought. "Do you see her?"

Nabok glanced around, casually searching the faces of the shop's patrons and those passing by the big display window. "Not yet," he answered.

"Well she'd better hurry up. I don't want the clerk pestering me into buying anything."

Several more minutes went by before Nabok finally said, "Here she comes."

Just as he looked up, Buruk spotted a black hardtop landspeeder cruising by the shop, the rear window opening and a male Bothan leaning out with—"Get down!" he shouted, dragging Nabok to the floor with him as a hail of automatic blaster fire tore through the shop, scything back and forth over their heads. Several patrons went down, crumpling like rag dolls. Buruk reached under his shirt and yanked out his blaster, cursing under his breath.

"Asryn?" Nabok shouted urgently over the din. "Asryn, are you all right?"

"I'm fine!" she called back. "Keep your head down!"

"Both of you find the back door," Buruk ordered, crawling toward the shattered display window. He poked his gun over the top and squeezed off a pair of shots in the direction of their attacker, hearing them _ping_ against the hull of the landspeeder. He hoped they'd listened as a concussion grenade sailed through the window, skidding to a halt in front of him. "Oh _shab_," he muttered. Scrambling around to the next aisle, he braced his sandals against the shelf and pushed as hard as he could, toppling the display stand over just as the grenade went off.

Shrapnel stung his arms and legs, and a piece tore a long gash in his cheek as his ears rang from the explosion, but other than that he was okay. Tossing his braid around his neck like a scarf, he scrabbled after Nabok and Asryn, just as a pair of Bothans in dark coats burst through the front door. Buruk shot one in the chest while the other ducked low and dove for cover behind the store counter. Buruk fired his remaining three shots at the counter and let a smile spread across his face as he heard the body hit the floor.

Sticking his blaster back in his waistband, he ran in a couch for the door marked 'employees only' and burst into the stockroom where he found Nabok and Asryn. "Come on," he growled to the two Bothans and headed for the back door, wiping blood from his cheek.

Behind the holocam shop, he led the way to the mouth of the alley. "They've probably got the whole block surrounded," he said. Turning to Nabok, he asked, "You wouldn't happen to know how to hotwire a landspeeder, would you?"

Nabok snorted. "What am I? An amateur?" he asked as he crept out of the alley toward an empty speeder parked a few meters away. Jimmying open the passenger door, he crawled into the cab and began yanking out wires, splicing them together while Buruk looked on tensely.

In minutes, the engine roared to life, catching everyone's attention up and down the street. Nabok turned back to Buruk and Asryn and waved them over frantically. "Time to go!" They ran for the landspeeder, Buruk taking the controls and gunning the accelerator.

As soon as they were off, another black speeder roared after them, catching up to them quickly. As Buruk took a sharp left turn, throwing the vehicle's occupants to the right, a Bothan leaned out of their pursuer's passenger window and opened fire. Blaster bolts ricocheted off the rear hull, throwing up sparks as Buruk continued to push the accelerator. _Tourists,_ he thought disgustedly as pedestrians threw themselves desperately out of the way.

As he jerked the landspeeder into oncoming traffic, Asryn screamed, "What the hell are you doing?"

"They'd be crazy to follow us, wouldn't they?" he fired back, not taking his eyes off the road for an instant. Speeders and repulsor trucks swerved to miss them as they careened through their midst. As Buruk had predicted, the other speeder stayed in the other lane, holding their fire. "You got a ship, kitten?"

"Tal'cara spaceport, docking bay three twenty-seven," she answered. "Hurry!"

"As you wish," he replied through gritted teeth, swinging the vehicle up an off ramp and onto the expressway.

"You're going to get us all killed!" Nabok screamed, his eyes as wide as dinner plates. "You're a madman!"

"No, I've just got nothing to lose," Buruk grinned. "There's a big difference."

Coming within sight of the spaceport, Buruk darted around an oncoming landspeeder and suddenly found himself on a collision course with a massive hover truck barreling straight at them and not moving a centimeter in either direction. Yanking the controls with all of his might, he threw the speeder over the median and into the correct traffic lane, but not before the truck clipped their tail, spinning them like a top. The two Bothans screamed while Buruk kept wrestling with the controls when they were struck again, this time turning their vehicle over and bringing it to a grinding halt on the shoulder.

Battered and bruised, Buruk pulled himself and his charges free of the wreck just as the black landspeeder pulled up next to them. Climbing out of the back, Admiral Gir'fey smiled wickedly. "I thought you might get lost, Kelborn," he chuckled. "You're on the other side of Bothan Space from Void Station."

"Guess I've just got a lousy sense of direction," Buruk said, eying him warily, hand drooping surreptitiously toward his pocket.

"Not so fast, human," one of Gir'fey's cronies said, holding a blaster on him.

Buruk reluctantly raised his hands. Gir'fey stepped up to him and reached under his shirt, removing the pistol from his waistband. "You see, Captain?" he asked, still chuckling. "You pull his teeth, and he's as harmless as a gizka." Turning back to Buruk, his smile faded and he said grimly, "Buruk Kelborn, you are found guilty of aiding and abetting two wanted criminals in Bothan Space. You are hereby condemned to death, the sentence of which will be carried out n—"

That was as far as he got before Buruk brought his forehead smashing against the admiral's nose, toppling him over in a daze. The Bothan captain fired his blaster as the Mandalorian dropped on top of Gir'fey, the shot missing him by bare centimeters. His next two shots caught the admiral in the back as Buruk rolled him over into a living shield and before he could fire a fourth time, Buruk had his vibrodagger buried in the Bothan's throat.

The captain crumpled to the ground, making weak gurgling noises as he clutched at his neck. Buruk retrieved his weapon, wiped the blade clean, and pocketed it, looking up at Nabok and Asryn who sat in their newly appropriated landspeeder. "Thanks for seeing us to safety, bounty hunter," Asryn said smiling. Then, with a wave, they sped off toward the spaceport.

Knowing he'd never see either spy ever again, Buruk heaved a sigh of disappointment and began walking, arm stretched out to his side, and his thumb held skyward. _Virtue can just keep its reward._


	4. Dha Werda Verda

Ballador Desilijic Dessh rested his massive bulk upon a hoversled, slowly blinking bulbous orange eyes as he puffed on his hookah pipe. The bloated Hutt let the peppery narcotic flow over him before adjusting the fez perched atop his head and turned to his datapad. He had much work that required his attention and his uncle Jiliac would not be happy if his personal accountant fell behind in his duties. Numbers were his stock-in-trade.

Ballador's life on Nal Hutta was certainly dull by most standards, one endless stream of financial transactions after another. He doled out payments to smugglers, slavers, bounty hunters, assassins, spies, mercenaries, and all other manner of scum from throughout the galaxy's underworld, though he never dealt personally with any of them. It was all handled electronically from his datapad. He never even needed to leave his spacious office; as a member of such a prestigious race, his meals were delivered straight to him by Jiliac's own kitchen staff. It may be dull, but Ballador liked it that way; predictability and accounting went hand-in-hand.

Naturally it came as a great shock to Ballador when his office door ruptured inward in a bright flash of sparks and smoke, causing the Hutt to flinch away from imagined debris. His eyes grew impossibly larger as he surveyed the wreckage of the smoldering portal, where a being in sand-gold armor stepped out of the smoke, loading a wrist rocket onto his left gauntlet. The armored being was humanoid and walked with a menacing air about him. The T-shaped visor of his helmet shielded his gaze from the Hutt, giving him no clue as to his identity.

At last Ballador found his voice. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded in Huttese. "How did you get in here? Who in blazes are you?"

Behind the intruder, in shuffled Ballador's secretary droid, stammering in its tinny voice, "Your Exaltedness, I tried to stop him but he wouldn't listen to me. He insisted upon seeing you and threatened to dismantle me if I interfered! Please don't deactivate me. Have mercy!"

"Ballador the Hutt," the stranger stated in a rough voice, filtered through his helmet. "I have it on good authority that you paid a sum of ten thousand credits to a man in Mandalorian armor five days ago to wipe out a band of pirates raiding your clan's spice shipments." He leaned his visored face closer. "Where were those pirates operating and where did you send the Mandalorian?"

"You're in no position to make demands of me, boy!" Ballador bellowed, rearing up on his tail so that he towered over the intruder. "You stand in the Winter Palace of Jiliac Desilijic Tiron, head of the Desilijic kajidic and will not leave with your life! Guards!"

The interloper glanced over his shoulder at the destroyed entryway, then back at the Hutt. "It's a little hard for them to hear… from the afterlife."

Ballador's breath hitched in his throat before he declared, "I'll crush the life out of you myself!" Rearing up, he threw his massive body at the intruder who threw himself aside just barely in time to avoid being smashed into a fine red paste by the Hutt's flabby body. Bellowing in rage, Ballador whipped his tail around to trip up the stranger but he leapt over it effortlessly as it slammed the poor droid across the room like a toy.

The Hutt spun around to find the tip of a wrist rocket, bare centimeters from his eyeball, freezing him in place. "What system?" the intruder repeated. "Thick hide or not, this Type-Twelve A anti-personnel rocket'll punch right through you and paint this room a very disgusting color. Now give me the name of the system."

Ballador blinked several times, concentrating first on not soiling himself, before rediscovering his voice. "Let me just check my records," he answered, slowly lifting his datapad and pressing a few keys. After a moment of searching, he said, "Here it is… the man you're after notified us via comlink yesterday that he had ambushed the _Red Eclipse_ and wiped them out in the Anobis system." He turned the datapad's screen to his guest to show him he wasn't lying. "You see, it's all right there."

The stranger began backing away from the Hutt toward the ruined door. "Thanks," he said, as he lifted his rocket launcher skyward and blasted a hole in the ceiling before rocketing up in a burst of smoke from his jetpack, leaving Ballador's hearts racing from all the excitement.

###

Buruk blasted away from Nal Hutta as fast as his ship, the _Bes'uliik_, would carry him. He wasn't really concerned about any Hutt reprisals but it was better to be safe than sorry. Just in case, he kept the laser cannons primed and ready. Setting aside his scarred helmet, he calculated the hyperspace jump for Anobis, then leaned back in the pilot's chair and waited. He needed time to think.

Anobis was an agriworld in the Mid Rim with a few scattered mining colonies in the mountains, which made it a prime target for pirates looking for supplies. No doubt Kex trailed the group he was after until they made port, leaving their ship vulnerable to infiltration, at which time he would pick off each crewman one at a time. That was Kex's style, watch and wait, and then get the job done as quietly as possible. Buruk snorted. Not many in the galaxy believed there was such a thing as a subtle _Mando'ad_. With any luck Kex hadn't been a complete ghost while he'd been reconnoitering and Buruk could squeeze a few leads out of the locals.

As the stars stretched into blurred lines before collapsing altogether into the hypnotic blue vortex of hyperspace, Buruk closed his eyes and let his memories drift.

###

_Yog Sothoth; a barren industrial world whose thick atmosphere was choked with corrosive poisons, byproducts of the great factories and smelting pits that stretched across the plains, breathable only to the native Yig. Upon first setting eyes on the Outer Rim world, Buruk Kelborn thought, _So this must be Hell_. No one in their right minds would fight over such a world. No one, that is, except the Mandalorians, who were being well compensated by the Yig for deposing Sultan Azathoth. Why they wanted the old lizard removed was no concern of theirs._

_Now Buruk led a commando raid into the heart of Zathog, the planet's capital city. Their target was the Sultan himself while the rest of Jango's and Myles' forces dealt with the loyalist factions. As the first of the Q-Carrier troopships fell toward the planet, the squad crept through a long, narrow alley, making their way toward the palace, _beskar'gam_ sealed against the deadly atmosphere. "Just a few more blocks to the east," Buruk whispered over the comm to his friend Goran Kex._

_"Coming up on a pair of sentries," Kex whispered back. He and another soldier had taken point, scouting ahead to the mouth of the alley. "Snipers in the windows of the office tower across the square, tenth and twelfth floors. Looks like SoroSuub X-Forty-Fives."_

_"They're using sporting blasters as sniper rifles?" Buruk wondered aloud. "The loyalists don't have much of an army, do they?"_

_"A lucky headshot and you'll be just as dead, _ner vod_," Goran reminded him with a chuckle._

_"Thankfully I have a good friend like you who won't let that happen," Buruk replied. "Just keep your _shebs_ down."_

_"Don't I always?"_

_Buruk found the mouth of the alley empty when he brought the rest of the squad up. Peering through his helmet's rangefinder, he spotted two snipers in the windows and held his breath. After several heartbeats he saw first one, then the other yanked back. Exhaling, he called, "Good job Goran."_

_"Naturally," Kex replied. "There's no one sneakier than me in this outfit." A moment later both snipers reappeared in their respective windows, only this time Buruk knew they each had a gaping slash across their throats. "Also no one with better taste in décor."_

_"Yeah, you're a regular _laandur_," Buruk muttered. "Are we clear to cross?"_

_"Affirmative, go."_

_Buruk flashed his troops a set of hand signals, then ran across the square, boots thudding against the pavement. As they reached the next alley, he threw up a closed fist, bringing his men to a halt as they waited for Kex and his partner to rejoin them._

_Then the minefield was triggered._

###

The main port on Anobis was abuzz with activity, ships coming and going, loading and unloading cargo, sentients and droids rushing everywhere in the mad dash of frantic commerce. Buruk waded through the sea of life in full armor, turning heads as he strode past, not looking to be inconspicuous. Most of the spacers spoke of recent pirate activity but he suspected most of the old-timers were confusing current events with half-remembered tales of their youths.

At present, Buruk sat alone in a cantina, sipping water through a straw so he didn't have to remove his helmet. A raised platform jutting out from one wall served as a stage where a quartet of Codru-Ji played various string, wind, and percussion instruments. Buruk tapped his foot absently to the music as he eyed the wait staff and other patrons through his T-shaped visor.

Across the bar, a trio of rowdy drunks was in the middle of a heated discussion. From their appearance, Buruk judged them to be pirates or some other manner of scum. "Did you hear what happened to the crew of the _Red Eclipse_?" the first pirate, a dark-skinned human with a shaved head and a jubilee of facial piercings asked.

One of his companions, a blue-skinned Nautolan, snorted derisively. "I don't give a damn what happened to them! Lousy bunch of 3hieving' scum!"

As the Nautolan downed a mug of ale, the third member of the circle, a green Twi'lek with tribal tattoos marking his fat-laden lekku, whispered, "Watch what you say around here, the _Red Eclipse_ had a lot of allies."

"So what?" the Nautolan demanded. "I'm glad they're all dead and I don't care who knows it!"

"Well you should," the Twi'lek hissed. Then, motioning his head in Buruk's direction, he added, "That guy over there's listening to every word we've been saying."

"Oh really?" The Nautolan got up from his chair and sauntered over to Buruk, slamming his palms down on the duraplast table. "Hey bucket head!" he growled drunkenly. "Yeah, I'm talking to you. Don't you know it's rude to eavesdrop on other people's business?"

"Words so loudly spoken are there for anyone to hear," Buruk replied evenly, taking another sip of his water.

With a snarl, the drunken Nautolan swatted Buruk's glass from his hand. The glass crashed across the room, splashing water everywhere, as the pirate grabbed for the blaster riding his hip. Buruk shot to his feet, slamming the crown of his helmet into the Nautolan's face. He staggered back and Buruk grabbed a handful of his tentacles, slamming his face into the tabletop with the sickening _crunch_ of bone and cartilage. The drunk slid to the floor in a smear of blood, unconscious.

Before his two companions could leave their seats, Buruk hooked his fingers through a handful of jewelry in the human's nose and lip, giving a hard yank that tore them free of his flesh and pinned the Twi'lek in his chair with a foot and the barrel of a blaster pistol to his forehead. "You were saying about the _Red Eclipse_?" he demanded.

"They—they got ambushed in high orbit," the Twi'lek stammered over the cries of his writhing companion.

"When? By who?" Buruk insisted, pressing his blaster harder against the pirate's skull. "What happened?"

"Two days ago, some Corellian freighter, a _Doomtreader_-class I think. Heavily modified. Came out of hyperspace and blasted the slag out of them. Didn't even tell them to surrender, just started shooting."

Buruk tilted his head to the side; that didn't sound anything like Kex's MO. "What happened to the freighter?"

"_Red Eclipse_ didn't go down without a fight, that's for sure. That freighter took a pounding and got a lot of its systems trashed, then limped out of the system when it was all over."

"So it was damaged and just left?" Buruk asked. "It didn't make port at all?"

"No, I swear," the pirate insisted.

Releasing him, Buruk strode toward the door. Kex needed a place to put in for repairs and if it wasn't here, there was only one other option. Tossing the bartender a few credits as he passed, he said, "Sorry about the mess," and hurried through the exit.

Buruk didn't pause for anything but immediately headed straight for the docking bay where his ship waited. Kex would have made for Ord Mantell in the nearby Bright Jewel system. It was home to a massive scrapyard where old hulks from across the galaxy were brought to be broken down into base components. That's were he'd find Kex, scavenging for parts to fix his damaged ship.

###

_Dust hung thick in the air as rubble settled in what remained of the alley. The noise dampeners in Buruk's helmet hadn't been able to fully compensate for the blast and his ears rang, a maddening high-pitched keening sound that felt like it was in his very eyeballs. Franticly, he checked his armor's seals; no leaks. "_Mar'e_," he breathed a sigh of relief. At least he wouldn't choke to death on the poisonous atmosphere. That was something. However, he found that when he tried to move his legs they were pinned fast beneath a slab of duracrete from the collapsed building sides. Osik._

_The rest of his squad was down, some moving, others deathly still. They were taking fire from all directions now, pinned down by the loyalist forces. Buruk tried his comlink. "Jango, Myles, this is Kelborn, do you copy? My squad is pinned down at coordinates _Alor Droten Tal_ Six Four Niner."_

_Only static answered; his comm must have been damaged in the explosion. No help was coming. Fear started to grip at him as that thought settled in. His squad was cut off and surrounded, their position about to be overwhelmed; he'd heard the Yig were notoriously carnivorous. Buruk shuddered at the thought. He struggled to free his legs but it was no use. They weren't being crushed but he couldn't free them._

_Just then several more explosions went off all around, mere pops compared to the blast that had brought the building down on top of him. _Concussion grenades,_ he thought. They were followed by blaster shots from the windows above, raking over the approaching lizards._

_Someone grabbed him roughly beneath the armpits and started dragging. Buruk struggled, swinging his fists, determined not to make it easy for the beasts to take him. A fist came down on top of his helmet and a familiar voice said, "Would you settle down you big baby? I'm about to pull your _shebs_ out of the fire." It was Kex; he and his partner had survived the office tower's near collapse when the mines had gone off._

_"My legs are pinned," Buruk informed his savior. Kex went to the pile of rubble and began clearing away chunks of duracrete._

_"Give me a hand," he said as he dug his gloved fingers beneath the slab that held Buruk's legs tight. Together they strained against the debris' weight, sweating beneath their helmets until finally Buruk was able to drag himself free._

_"_Vor'e ner vod_," Buruk gasped, climbing to his feet. "Come on, we have to help the others."_

###

The _Bes'uliik_ left hyperspace and kicked in its sublight engines, rocketing toward Ord Mantell. The thought of finally having Kex in his grasp sent waves of anticipation through Buruk, an exhilarating sensation that after so many months his search was at last complete.

But first he needed a way to get onto the planet without being seen. Finding Kex would be for nothing if he saw his old comrade coming and managed to escape. A massive garbage scow provided the cover he needed. Maneuvering his ship into its shadow, Buruk followed the trash hauler closely, matching it maneuver for maneuver. Anyone watching their scanners would think he was merely a ghost reading, a glitch in the sensors. He doubted anyone would be paying attention.

As he slipped in behind the hauler, Buruk looked out over the mountains of trash piled hundreds of meters high, resting in an acidic lake that stretched for kilometers. This was where old starships came to die. Droids cut away rusted armor plating from hulls, leaving the skeletal superstructures exposed like boney fingers grasping at the twilight sky. A labyrinthine hovertrain network snaked through the scrapyard like mechanical rivers, transporting discarded ship components from one point to another; there, heavy lifter droids unloaded their cargo to be stacked and sorted in a process that would go on as long as the galaxy relied on technology.

Buruk spotted the rust-colored Doomtreader resting on a raised platform beside an enormous garbage smasher, which was located at a hovertrain nexus where the ground was solid. The freighter was shaped roughly like a hawkbat, with a vertical hammerhead-style cockpit and four powerful engines, two aft and one on each wingtip that appeared to be custom jobs.

He was tempted to scan the vessel for lifesigns, hoping Kex would be aboard, but decided against it. If his target was on the ship, then aiming his sensors at it would set off every alarm it had and Kex would be able to make a fast getaway. Instead, Buruk decided to land a safe distance away and set out into the coming night on foot. _Besides,_ he thought, _hunting Kex down like a dog will be so much more satisfying._

Fully armored and geared up, Buruk hefted his blaster rifle and crept along a hovertrain rail through the durasteel maze, watching his step to avoid the corrosive liquid the scrapyard laid in. The acid vapor stung his nostrils, making them feel as though they had been scraped raw inside. His HUD assured him the byproduct gasses weren't concentrated enough to be deadly. _Unlike Yog Sothoth._

The train rail began to incline upward toward the garbage smasher. His heart hammered against his breastbone with each stride, threatening to burst through his ribcage. This was it; Kex would face judgment for his crime at Galidraan. So many _Mando'ade_ would be able to rest in peace after today. Every step closer made the blood pumping in his ears that much louder.

Something rustled on the opposite side of a large durasteel hull plate. Buruk froze, listened. Nothing. He pressed his back to the metal and crept along the wall, watching the edge through his T-visor. His pulse raced, anticipating the confrontation. The rustling sound came again and he slowly peered around the corner. He ducked back as a flock of mynocks burst forth in a flurry of leathery wings, leaping into the rapidly dimming sky. Ensuring no other surprises waited on the other side of the durasteel slab, he continued up the ramp.

Buruk raised the blaster rifle to a ready position as he approached the Doomtreader's lowered ramp; warm amber light spilled from the hold into the twilight, almost invitingly. As he crept forward, he peered in all directions, searching for possible ambush sites; there were several in this maze and he checked each one before approaching the ship. The engines popped and pinged as they cooled. Kex must have landed recently. Standing at the base of the ramp, he could detect no movement within.

"See anything you like, _ner vod_?" a gruff, unfamiliar voice asked as a blaster barrel jabbed the back of his helmet.

Sha'buir, Buruk thought as he mentally berated himself. _Let him get the drop on me…_ Aloud, he said, "Not really; I prefer MandalMotors for my ships." Raising his hands and letting his blaster hang loosely from its sling, he added, "You should think about getting yourself one." He had a special trick for this sort of situation; just had to keep him talking while he slowly rotated his jetpack's thruster nozzles toward him.

"Maybe I'll just take yours," his ambusher replied, oblivious. "You won't be needing it anymore."

Before he could pull the trigger, Buruk activated his jetpack, launching himself forward and throwing his attacker backward off his feet. Buruk brought his knees into his chest, transforming his jerking lurch into a controlled tumble, rolling to his feet on the opposite side of the ship.

Spinning around and raising his blaster, Buruk caught sight of his assailant leaping to his feet. He wore brown and grey _beskar'gam_ with a grey short-sleeved jumpsuit on a powerful frame. A flowing burgundy cape hung from his broad shoulders and a brown leather belt with a skull-shaped buckle and several long straps dangling from it wrapped around his waist. Even though his helmet hid his identity, Buruk knew it wasn't Kex.

There was no time for disappointment to set in. Without a moment's hesitation the other Mandalorian was in the air with a burst from his own jetpack, alighting on top of his ship and unleashing a volley of blaster fire. Buruk ran for cover, blaster bolts kicking up at his feet, and dove off the platform and into the scrapyard.

He landed on his stomach in a shallow pool of acid and pushed himself to his feet. Thin wisps of smoke curled up from his armor where the corrosive liquid ate away paint but thankfully the iron held; it was one of the toughest materials in the galaxy. His attacker wasted no time in pursuit, landing in a crouch at the edge of the platform. Buruk pulled a concussion grenade from his right thigh plate, pulled the arming pin, and hurled it upwards onto the ledge, pressing himself against the wall for protection.

His opponent leapt, the blast carrying him through the air. Buruk aimed and fired a short burst from his blaster rifle, peppering the Mandalorian with several shots that glanced off his armor. As he fell, he bounced off of the hood of a landspeeder and landed unceremoniously on a conveyer belt moving away from Buruk.

_Got to close the gap before he recovers!_ Buruk thought, firing his jetpack. As he rocketed forward, the Mandalorian pulled himself to his feet, shaking his head to clear it, and caught sight of him. With hasty aim, he raised his left gauntlet and fired a wrist rocket. Buruk's eyes widened in surprise behind his visor and he dove below the projectile to land several meters up the conveyor from his opponent.

Shoving aside compressed cubes of scrap metal, the warrior charged after Buruk, firing his blaster recklessly. His shots ricocheted around Buruk as he ducked and wove to avoid being hit, showers of sparks lighting up the night. Finally the Mandalorian reached him and Buruk pounced, trapping the warrior's gun arm in his left armpit and swinging for his attacker's throat with his right. The armored stranger lowered his chin in time, protecting his neck and Buruk cried out in pain as his fist smashed into the cheek of his sturdy _beskar_ helmet.

The Mandalorian grabbed Buruk's wrist with his free hand, shifted his weight, and used his leg to sweep Buruk off his feet, slamming him bodily onto the conveyor belt. Buruk gasped as the breath left his lungs and his assailant stood, gaining the upper hand.

Taking a moment to relish his victory, the warrior glanced around and found the conveyor was headed for the open mouth of an industrial incinerator unit. Buruk saw too and tried levering himself to his feet but the other man placed a boot on his chest and shoved him back down hard.

"Save a place for me in Hell," the Mandalorian snarled then stomped down on the fallen man's chest.

But for his Mandalorian armor, Buruk's ribs would have snapped. Instead, through a fit of agonized coughing, he croaked, "Meet me there mate," and triggered his gauntlet's flamethrower, igniting his foe's cape. As he tore the flaming garment free of his armor, Buruk rolled to the side and fell onto a pile of trash that shifted dangerously beneath his weight. Without hesitating, he fired his wrist rocket at the conveyor belt.

His opponent rocketed through the blossoming fireball, his armor blackened and trailing smoke, and plowed right into Buruk. They tumbled down the shifting debris mound, bouncing and scraping, followed by a small avalanche of detritus.

Once again on their feet at the base of the hill, the Mandalorian fired his whipcord, the weighted grapple wrapping around Buruk's neck, and took off. Immediately Buruk's hands went to his throat, trying to loosen the synthrope as he was yanked off his feet. _I'm lucky my neck didn't snap,_ he thought as he sailed through the air, his life slowly being choked out of him. Flexing his wrist, the vibroblade housed in his gauntlet slid from its sheath and hummed to life. He slashed the rope and fell to the ground, rolling as he hit, taking deep, sore breaths.

His adversary was flying back for his ship so Buruk grabbed a durasteel pole and took to the air in pursuit. Catching up to him, Buruk swung the improvised weapon in a deadly arc, smashing it into the Mandalorian's jetpack. The damaged pack sputtered and coughed, belching smoke from its thrusters as he dropped like a stone, his trajectory carrying him forward until his hit the duracrete platform. He scrambled to his feet and limped for the Doomtreader's boarding ramp, but Buruk landed a short distance behind him and kicked a concussion grenade to the base of the ramp.

The warrior dove away from the explosion, rolling to the edge of the garbage smasher, sparks crawling across the body of his jetpack. His hand blurred into action, pulling his blaster from its holster and he fired several shots, tracking Buruk across the platform until he dove for cover behind one of the freighter's landing struts. Buruk drew his own pair of custom blaster pistols, leaned around the strut, and snapped off three shots from each in rapid succession.

One shot caught his target in the breastplate, throwing him backward over the edge, into the garbage smasher. Buruk leapt in after him, landing beside the fallen man. All he could see was red. Vaguely he registered that the compaction walls had begun to close, ever so slowly. Grabbing the Mandalorian by the collar plate, he tore off the man's helmet.

The big mercenary had thin, closely cropped white hair and dark brown eyes. His nose looked as if it had been broken years before and had healed crookedly and his mouth seemed to curl in a permanent sneer. He glared hatefully up into Buruk's T-shaped visor. "Montross?" Buruk blurted, taken by surprise that he knew the man.

###

_Korda VI had been a disaster from the start. First, ion cannon fire had crippled the Q-Carrier Buruk had been piloting. Then they'd taken heavy fire from the natives as soon as the ramp was lowered, forcing them to take cover in the trenches dug out by their own crash landing. Hell of a first mission with the True Mandalorians for a boy of only ten._

_Jaster had ordered the mission abort but Montross took his squad headlong at the enemy, charging right up the middle and getting even more men killed. Jaster had to go pull his _shebs_ out of the fire personally while Jango used the assault as a diversion so he could go after the target. Buruk had been told to stay behind and help guard the troopships with Jaster's squad; the boy had been steely-eyed the whole time, fighting like a professional, just as he'd been trained. He was only three years from adulthood by _Mando'a_ standards._

_Then Montross had returned. Alone. He said the mission was a setup, that the Death Watch had planned the whole thing. Buruk wouldn't have put it past his estranged father to do something like that. So, Vizsla finally managed to do what he'd been dreaming of for years, kill Jaster Mereel._

_But where was Jango?_

_Montross was busy ordering everyone around like he was already Mandalore. "Hurry up!" he shouted, waving soldiers onto the few Q-Carriers that still functioned. "Jaster's last order still stands! We're aborting!"_

_"What about Jango?" Buruk demanded. His friend hadn't returned from the target zone in the forest._

_Montross whirled on Buruk, grabbing him by the collar plate. "He died trying to save Jaster," he growled. "Let's move!"_

_As Montross turned toward a waiting troopship, Buruk took one last look at the tree line. There, wading through the mud came a pair of Mandalorians, one cradling a third in his arms. Grabbing Montross' arm and pointing up the hill, Buruk cried out, "Wait! Look!"_

_"Jango!" Montross blurted._

_As Jango limped down to the waiting ships, he said in a threatening voice, "Help me get Jaster off this rock. Then we're going to find Vizsla," he added. He then turned to carry Mereel's body up the boarding ramp, only to be stopped by Montross' hand on his shoulder._

_"This is your chance to do right by Jaster, kid," he whispered. "I should be in command here…"_

_Jango whirled on the bigger man, furious. "That's not your call to make, Montross. I say you're not fit to lead us." Pointing an accusing finger, he said, "You left Jaster on the battlefield to die alone."_

_Behind him, another young soldier, Silas, drew his blaster on Montross. "I'll follow Jango," he declared. "And no one else."_

_"Is that what you want?" Montross demanded. "A child leading you?" Jango was fourteen, legally an adult. Buruk and several others drew their own weapons on Montross._

_"You should go," Jango stated flatly._

_"You'll kill them all, Fett," Montross insisted._

_"Go!"_

###

Montross' eyes hardened, as if he finally recognized Buruk. "Well, if it ain't the Death Watch brat. What happened? Get sick of playing by Jango's rules now?"

Buruk shook him roughly, keeping his blaster trained on him. "I'm looking for Goran Kex. What do you know?" he demanded. The walls were about six meters apart and moving steadily together, pushing the garbage along with them.

"What's got into Jango's head sending a whelp like you after me?" Montross replied.

Anger flared up in Buruk's brain. It had finally begun to sink in that he'd been chasing his tail coming to Ord Mantell. "Tell me!" he screamed. "Tell me or I'll burn you down!"

Now the walls were five meters apart.

"I only answer to the Mandalore," Montross insisted with mock dignity. "Bring him here and I'll talk."

"They're all dead!" Buruk shouted at him. "The Jedi slaughtered them all like nerfs! Jango's a slave, Silas is in hiding, and Kex betrayed us!"

Only three meters separated the compaction walls now.

Montross began laughing hysterically. "I knew it!" he declared. "I told you Jango'd get you all killed!"

In a rage, Buruk smashed the butt of his blaster across Montross' face. "You _dar'manda aruetii_!" he snarled.

Blood dribbled from Montross' nose. He knew nothing of use and Buruk was back to square one. All he'd get from this exile would be taunts and abuse.

A meter and a half.

"You just going to leave me in here Kelborn?" Montross asked. "That's not very inline with Jaster's Codex."

Buruk bristled at that. He'd dedicated himself to Jaster Mereel's moral code when he had joined the Mandalorians all those years ago. Even if most of their people were slain, he couldn't abandon that now. Tightening his grip on Montross' collar plate, he fired his jetpack and shot out from between the garbage smasher's walls, just as they clanged together.

Dropping Montross unceremoniously to the platform, Buruk hovered in midair, glaring down at him. "My fight's with Kex," he growled, wrestling with his own emotions. He sorely wanted to satisfy his frustration by putting a blaster bolt through that smug face below him, but somehow restrained himself. "Someday you'll have to answer for your own treachery." Before he could do something he'd regret, Buruk vectored toward the _Bes'uliik_ and didn't look back, his heart weighted down with impotent rage and torturous disappointment.


	5. Easy Come Easy Go

Lynli Vairn shivered as she stared with dull, half-lidded eyes out the canopy of her stolen CloakShape fighter. The sublight engines had been damaged and the hyperdrive was leaking, stranding her in the Al'Har system, and the climate control had just died on top of that. Rubbing hands over violet skin, she dimly wished she'd dressed a tad less alluringly; necessity had dictated she leave with only the clothes on her back and in the first ship she could wire. Hence the halter top, short skirt, and open-toe heels, all with the maximum amount of skin exposure; her lekku were already numb.

Lynli hadn't had time to pack for her extremely hasty departure from Malastare. She had gone there for the annual Vinta Harvest Classic podrace, hoping to win big. At first everything was looking up for her; the Gran racer she bet on was in the lead, speeding through the course at seven hundred kilometers an hour, barely a meter above a methane pool and leaving a trail of fire in his wake. With the roaring crowd, she clutched her betting stubs in tight, white-knuckled fists, hopping up and down with a combination of excitement and annoyance at the beings in her way.

A Dug racer known as Sebulba caught up to the Gran as they jumped a ravine and made a hairpin turn in the final stretch, pulling alongside him. Triggering some hidden weapon on his pod, Sebulba forced her champion off the track. Lynli could do nothing but watch, dumbstruck, as he came skidding to a halt mere centimeters shy of a sheer rock wall while Sebulba claimed victory.

She'd lost over fifty thousand credits, far more than she could pay. She ran desperately from the tiered bleachers, shoving her way through the mob. Sneaking past the bookies at the security checkpoint, she stole the disarmed CloakShape in the racetrack's speeder lot, and took off, Malastare's authorities firing on her all the way up into space. Lynli wasn't much of a pilot; she normally relied on marks to get her aboard passenger liners while working a con. Each time the CloakShape shook from a laser blast she flinched, expecting to be consumed in the inevitable explosion. With panicked fingers she punched in the nearest coordinates from the navicomputer and pulled the hyperdrive lever. It was pure luck that got her into hyperspace before she could be vaporized.

_And a lot of good it did me too,_ she thought bitterly, rubbing her hands together for warmth. She could now see her own breath as the temperature of her craft steadily dropped. _Instead of a fiery explosion, I get to freeze to death. Yay for me._

The sensor board pinged, grabbing her full attention, and she shot forward to bring her face within centimeters of the screen. A ship was approaching, and fast too. Opening a comm channel, she quickly composed herself. "Hi there," she purred. "I have a bit of a problem. My ship's broken down and if you could just give me a lift—"

Lynli cut herself off as a Skipray Blastboat screamed overhead, eliciting a yelp from her. She watched, crestfallen, as it shrank into the distance and eventually disappeared from view altogether. "Why is everyone always in such a hurry?" she moaned, throwing herself back into the pilot seat and covering her eyes with a hand.

Just then the sensors pinged again and she peered between her fingers to see another ship approaching, following the same vector as the fleeing Blastboat. Opening another comm channel, she tried again, forcing an even more seductive tone into her voice. "Hi," she sang. "I've had a bit of a breakdown here and I was wondering if I could trouble you for a lift to Sullust, I'd be _very_ appreciative." She paused and eyed the sensors as the ship slowed but continued on its course. "I'd make it worth your while," she added suggestively.

An accented male voice called out in Basic, "What's your name, miss?"

Her heart leapt, overjoyed. He was sure to offer her a ride. "It's Lynli," she cooed.

"You wouldn't happen to be a Twi'lek, would you?" the man asked. "I sure hope so."

"Today's your lucky day, big boy," she answered. _Yes! He's hooked!_ She did a silent dance of joy in her seat. Gazing through the canopy she could start the see the outlines of the approaching ship against the stars. It was a boxy craft with a horizontal stabilizer jutting out from the port side at a right angle from the main hull and a support strut that ran diagonally from the top of the ship to the tip of the stabilizer, giving it a triangular silhouette. She couldn't shake the feeling that it looked somehow familiar.

Now the ship altered its course and headed straight for her. "Lynli," the male voice said, pausing afterward.

Suddenly a hologram snapped into focus above the comm board, a transparent blue ghost shot through with scan lines of the head and shoulders of an armored being whose helmet had a distinctive T-shaped visor. Lynli's eyes went wide as recognition flooded through her. "You and I have unfinished business," the bounty hunter finished.

###

Buruk paced back and forth along the _Bes'uliik_'s prison corridor, boot heels echoing off the bulkheads. His helmet was off and he gnashed his teeth with barely contained fury. Lynli Vairn sat in the center cell, a set of binder cuffs chaining each wrist to the bunk so her hands would be spread apart. She was dressed very sparsely and he watched her from the corner of his eye, despite himself. When he'd opened her ship she was shivering uncontrollably; it could have been fear, but even with his body armor, he had to admit the CloakShape's interior was cold. Now she sat completely erect, a sly smile on her violet features as she watched him pace.

He'd been half tempted to leave her floating through the void when he picked up her transmission, just as she'd done to him a few months back, and had wrestled with that idea for several minutes before desire for her twenty thousand credit bounty won out. Still, he felt compelled to confront her about her theft. "You took all the money you stole from me and lost it gambling on podraces?" he demanded, coming to a stop before her cell.

"Don't tell me you're still mad," she purred, crossing her legs theatrically. "Would a kiss for old time's sake make it up to you? I promise I'm not wearing my _special_ lip-gloss." She winked at him.

Buruk wasn't amused. "I want my money, _chakaar_," he stated in a dark tone.

"Pfft, please," the Twi'lek rolled her eyes. "That was chump change in that safe, barely twenty-five hundred."

His eyebrows shot up, briefly forgetting his anger. "Really? That much?" Then, remembering the recent crushing of his hopes, his eyes hardened, red brows drawing together. "Well, at least seventeen and a half thousand is still a profit."

"You've got to be kidding me!" Her shout echoed so loudly, Buruk took an involuntary step back. "I didn't do anything wrong!" she insisted, her voice trailing down to a whimper. "That slime ball had it coming to him."

She was of course referring to the Hutt she'd murdered, Zordo Desilijic Fadj. Though he had no love for the Hutts and he doubted the galaxy would miss the old slug, murder was murder and Buruk had an investigation to fund. He turned to go, rolling his eyes as he said, "Right Lynli, like I'm going to take _your_ word for it." He saw her slump down on the cot with a look of despair, staring at the cold durasteel deck. This was a very different Lynli Vairn. _She looks completely abandoned right now,_ he thought, pausing at the lifttube, before heading up to the bridge.

###

Once Buruk had entered the lifttube and was out of sight, Lynli snapped back into focus. Leaning over to where her right hand was chained to the bunk, she pulled the tiny lock pick from where she'd secreted it beneath her tongue, clamped it between her teeth, and set to work on the set of cuffs binding that wrist. _He may be cute and stubborn, but he's hardly thorough,_ she thought sarcastically.

She had no idea what she'd do once she freed herself; there was no way she could overpower her captor and hijack his ship, not this time. They were still docked with the CloakShape fighter but that would be a dead end, right back where she started. Releasing her now chafed wrists, she stretched out on the cot to think through her next move, crossing her ankles and tapping her foot in the air.

No doubt about it. For the time being, Lynli was stuck with him. She elected to stay in her cell.

###

Buruk sat at the controls, helmet resting on the deck beside him, whistling the _Dha Werda Verda _to himself as he prepared to disengage from Lynli's ship. The navicomputer calculated a course for Ralltiir, where the bounty posting instructed that Lynli be delivered, and he took a few moments to sit back and watch the big blue disc of Haruun Kal spin beneath him.

He tried not to think about what awaited the Twi'lek woman at their destination; he'd heard stories over the years about Black Sun and their infamous "Prince", Alexi Garyn. No doubt that he'd exact some torturous vengeance on the girl for killing one of his wealthier vigos. The thought made him stop whistling.

Suddenly an alarm started flashing, warning of a nearby hyperspace reentry. Buruk scanned his sensors and spotted a quartet of ships emerging into realspace, Z-95 Headhunters. _I wonder what they're doing here,_ he thought, hand hovering over the ship's weapons controls. As they approached, he recognized the markings adorning the starfighters as belonging to the Malastare Sector Police.

The comlink chirped to life, "Unidentified Pursuer enforcement ship, you are currently docked with a stolen vessel last reported in the possession of a known fugitive. Power down and prepare to be boarded."

Buruk rolled his eyes and keyed the comm. "Negative, I've got her and—"

That was as far as he got before the Headhunters opened fire. Their twin blaster cannons raked scarlet energy across his hull, shaking the _Bes'uliik_ violently with each blast. "_Osik!_" Buruk growled, disengaging from the CloakShape and raising shields. Over the comm, he yelled, "I'm claiming her bounty, you idiots! Guild license Trill Herf Xesh One One Three Eight!" He dialed up the throttle to full, pressing back into his seat before the inertial dampers could fully compensate for the sudden acceleration.

"We don't recognize your authority, bounty hunter," one of the police officers answered, as the flight group gave chase.

His ship rocked with more laser hits; these cops were good, that was for sure. Buruk wasn't keen on shooting them but he was running out of options fast as his shields steadily wore down. A warning light blinked yellow, then turned a steady red accompanied by a wail that pierced his eardrums. Firing the reverse thrusters and throwing the ship into a lurching roll to port, Buruk's heart leapt as a concussion missile shot past the viewport. "That was too close," he breathed, inverting the _Bes'uliik_ and diving hard toward the planet.

The four Z-95s weren't shaken, splitting into pairs and diving after him. They continued to fire as he slipped from side to side, pummeling him relentlessly. They were going to try and hem him in, he knew it. His ship shook again, violently, and a jubilee of warning lights lit up across the control panel. "_Sha'buir_," he said through gritted teeth. He'd just lost his deflector shields.

###

Lynli fell off the cot with the first violent shudder of the ship. "Owww!" she groaned, rubbing her backside where she'd landed on the deck plating. "What the heck is he doing up there?" She stood and was nearly thrown from her feet again as the ship lurched into motion, accelerating violently before the dampers kicked in. Then she heard the unmistakable hiss of laser fire contacting deflector shields.

"Oh no," she whispered, golden eyes going wide. "We're under attack!" She ran to the cell door and inserted the pick into the lock. Twisting the pins with desperate haste, she began to sweat, forcing her hands to remain steady.

Just as the cell swung open, the glow panels flickered and died, replaced with blood red emergency lights. Lynli bit her lip as she stood in the corridor, thinking. Abruptly, she turned left, pivoting on her heel, and ran for the door at the end of he corridor. It slid open with a hiss of compressed air as she slapped the control panel beside it and rushed through.

The engine room was dark and smelled of industrial solvents. She stumbled through the gloom, groping along a shelf for a glow rod. Finding one, she flicked it on and inspected the sparking machinery. The shield generator was damaged, black scorch marks surrounding several burned out components. _Got to get it working or I'm dead_, her mind screamed.

Grabbing tools from their storage bins, she squeezed her lithe frame into an awkward position and began tearing out the damaged parts. The engine room was hot and sweat poured down her forehead, stinging her eyes. Her fingers worked deftly, bypassing components and splicing wires together. _Hurry, hurry, hurry!_

###

Buruk wrestled with the controls, a desperate look on his scarred face, as he forced his ship out of a flat spin and brought himself head-on with a pair of his attackers. Squaring the leftmost fighter in his targeting reticule, he opened fire with the twin laser cannons mounted in front of the _Bes'uliik_'s cockpit. Daggers of green energy bit into the Headhunter's forward shield, dissipating across the energy field's surface, then finally punched through. The fighters broke off and Buruk altered course to pursue.

_Shields are down but the best defense is a good offense…_ he thought grimly. _Just have to get them before they get me._

Another warning tone sounded in the cockpit and he jerked the controls so that the sheet of laser fire missed his ship by mere centimeters.

Then something unexpected happened; with a flicker on the status indicator, his shields suddenly snapped back to life, fully charged. With no time to wonder, he vectored toward the blasts' origin, bringing the _Bes'uliik_ on another head-to-head run, and fired a spread of proton torpedoes and a volley of ion cannon fire. One fighter pilot didn't react in time; a torpedo plowed into his ship's nose, blossoming into a blinding fireball as the wings spun off in opposite directions. His wingman inverted and dove out of Buruk's line of fire, trying to rejoin his two comrades.

Buruk didn't give him the chance. Diving after the panicking pilot, he centered the Z-95 in his sights and finished him off with his lasers. The remaining Headhunters immediately turned tail and ran, leaping into hyperspace with flickers of pseudomotion. Buruk sat back in the pilot's chair and breathed a sigh of relief. He regretted having to kill the two police officers, but they had fired the first shots and that was enough to clear his conscience.

The lifttube door hissed open behind him and he spun around in his seat, drawing a blaster. There, leaning sensuously against the aperture, Lynli gave him an inviting smile.

"So, did we win?" she inquired curiously.

"How…? When…? What…?" Buruk sputtered, wearing a look of pure incredulity.

"Well, don't worry," she continued as if not hearing him. "We'll make some big bucks on the next job and get your ship fixed right up."

Regaining his senses, Buruk rose to his feet and holstered the blaster. "What's this 'we' talk?" he asked, shoving her roughly into the lifttube and taking her back down to her cell. She pressed uncomfortably close to him in the tube's confines on the ride down.

"Come on," she teased. "You know you need me around. Hey, I fixed your shield generator for you."

He glared at her for moment, then, grudgingly, said, "Thank you."

After locking her away, he stepped up to the engine room door and touched the control panel beside it, but to no effect. Frowning, he pressed it again, with the same result. Turning to face the imprisoned Twi'lek, he demanded, "What did you do?"

"Oh, just a little insurance," she smiled innocently.

His voice fell to a deadly whisper. "You code-locked the door."

Her smile spread. "Don't worry. We'll make enough to get that fixed too. Until then I guess you'll just have to keep me around."

Buruk's right eye twitched involuntarily as his expression fell.


	6. Black Magic Woman Part 1

Buruk could hear avians chirping; he sat completely motionless in a hunting blind, one kilometer away from the outdoor café where he kept Lynli focused in his blaster rifle's scope. She weaved confidently through the scattered tables, sashaying her hips toward their target; several heads turned in her direction, gazing after the Twi'lek's long legs and sensuous lekku. In spite of himself, the Mandalorian found he rather enjoyed the view as well.

Without preamble, she brazenly took a seat beside a plain looking man in a brown coat that had been digging into a bowl of noodles with a pair of thin wooden sticks. He looked up in surprise, mouth half full with some of the curly white strings hanging down his chin; he had close cropped brown hair, a crooked nose, and brown eyes. His name was Deq'ard.

Lynli had walked in on Buruk in the _Bes'uliik_'s galley while he'd been going through bounty postings on his datapad. Ever since she'd finagled her way out of being turned in for her own bounty she'd been walking around his ship like she owned the place. It annoyed Buruk and, what's worse, she knew it.

"So, anything good?" she asked curiously in that overplayed seductive voice that grated so harshly against Buruk's nerves. Over the course of their acquaintance he came to regard it as a warning signal to be on his toes for impending duplicity.

"Not especially," he grunted from where he sat, refusing to look up at her. "Only one close by is a small fry on Gyndine worth thirty-five hundred. You in?" He kept his voice carefully neutral and the datapad's display hidden against his chest.

She shifted her weight onto her right foot and crossed her arms over her chest. "Who's the acquisition?" she asked noncommittally.

"Name's Deq'ard, retired bounty hunter; human, mid-forties. Started a few militant anti-droid movements on some worlds and it just snowballed from there into his cronies bombing droid factories. Now he's wanted for inciting and committing acts of terrorism. Good enough for you?"

"Okay," she sighed. "I'm in."

He hadn't told her the reward on Deq'ard didn't involve live capture. They'd run down his connections and found where he'd most likely be out in the open and when. Now Lynli leaned in close to him, flirting and batting her eyes. "That's it, keep him talking," Buruk whispered into his comlink. She heard his instructions through the bud hidden in her ear and stepped up the act, brushing her foot up and down his leg beneath the table.

Buruk settled the targeting scope's crosshairs dead center on Deq'ard's face; he looked as uncomfortable with Lynli's advances as Buruk normally felt. Holding his breath, he allowed a moment's empathy for the man, then squeezed the trigger and Deq'ard's head vanished in a spurt of dark red blood. Lynli jerked back in her seat, yellow eyes going wide with shock, as the spray covered the right half of her body. The café's other patrons screamed and ran for cover and it took several heartbeats for the Twi'lek to snap out of her stupor and do likewise.

Back at their docking bay, Lynli found Buruk leaning casually against the ship's hull, a smirk on his scarred face and cradling his blaster rifle in his arms. As she approached, he gave her an inquisitive look and asked, "Who does your makeup? I simply adore it."

Her expression turned even angrier as she tried to wipe the blood from her violet cheek, succeeding only in smearing it around. He chuckled as she said acidly, "Just shut up and give me my cut." As he made the funds transfer, she looked down at the thin data wafers in his hands and asked, "Since when did you start carrying a credit chip?"

"Since a _chakaarla_ Twi'lek started living aboard my ship," he answered evenly.

Snatching the proffered chip from his extended hand, Lynli affected a haughty air despite her appearance and stepped past him into the _Bes'uliik_'s airlock. "Not going to 'deposit' your share in a casino?" he goaded.

"Actually, I need it as capital for a little venture I had in mind," she replied without looking back at him.

That worried Buruk. Following her into the ship, he said, "Now wait a minute, what kind of venture are we talking about?"

She paused in the prison corridor and looked back at him. "Chasing these penny-ante bounties is a waste of time. I'm going to show you how to make real money." She stepped into the cell that she'd claimed for her room aboard Buruk's ship and plunged into her footlocker, rummaging through clothes, makeup, and various odds and ends. She resurfaced holding a deck of sabacc cards. "But first we need just a little more spending money to get our real business going. Do change out of that armor into something less conspicuous while I'm in the 'fresher?"

His forehead wrinkled in confusion as he followed her with his gaze. "I've got a bad feeling about this," he muttered.

###

"Step right up folks!" Lynli called out, now immaculately clean and flashing her most charming smile. "Find the lady and double your credits. It's easy! Just follow the cards." She'd found a busy side street where she laid out three sabacc cards on top of a simple flimsiplast box and encouraged passersby to try their luck.

A young Zabrak who looked barely out of his teens stepped up to the table and laid down a fifty credit chip. "I'll give it go," he said sheepishly.

Lynli smiled at the youth and laid a fifty of her own on the table next to his. _Too easy,_ she thought. Briefly showing him the Queen of Air and Darkness, she flipped the card face down and commenced shuffling the trio around randomly with lightning speed. All eyes darted back and forth, trying to track her nimble hands' convoluted movements, futile though their efforts were.

Naturally the money card was a skifter, a trick card that would shift its face value to either the Ace of Staves or the Ace of Sabers when tapped; the unwitting players had no idea that every time they happened to choose correctly, they caused their own failure anyway. Buruk didn't approve, the big spoilsport. When he'd found out what she had in mind, he'd gone resolutely back to the ship to install some new some such he'd gotten for it.

At last her hands stopped their intricate dance over the table. The Zabrak hesitated, holding his hand above the cards and biting his lower lip. Then, after a moment's indecision, he pointed to the leftmost card. "That one," he declared. Lynli noted a slight waver in his voice. He probably wanted to convince himself as much as her.

Slowly reaching down to the tabletop, she drew out the act of turning the card over, torturing her audience for several heartbeats until she revealed the Ace of Sabers. "I'm so sorry," she lamented, clearly anything but. "Today just isn't your lucky day." Crestfallen, the Zabrak turned and walked away while Lynli mentally tallied her winnings and the next mark stepped up.

###

Buruk was lying on his stomach with his arms buried in the open deck plates beneath the cellblock when Lynli returned to the ship with a brown sack held in her arms, humming a merry tune. Eying her curiously as she entered her room, he stood and wiped his hands on a greasy rag, peering through the open door. "Your scam worked, then?" he asked.

"Stage One went very well, thank you," she answered brightly while she sat at the foot of her bunk and opened the parcel in her lap. Then, holding up a drab robe in earthen tones, she faced him and asked, "What do you think?"

His brow wrinkled in confusion. "It's a different look for you, I'll say that much."

"Well, have a look at this," she added, holding a polished silver cylinder at her waist. It looked remarkably like a—

"You're joking," he declared, eyes wide. "You're not actually going to try that here, on these people, after filching all their credits, are you?"

She winked playfully at him. "Of course not silly. We just have to find some backwater on the Outer Rim that need's a Jedi's assistance."

Buruk squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning heavily against the doorframe. "You know that bad feeling I got? It just got a whole lot worse."

Much to Buruk's relief, the lightsaber turned out to be a fake; on their way to a suitable planet to con its inhabitants, Lynli explained that she had merely bought a length of metal piping and a collection of buttons and knobs, then cobbled it all together into a reasonable facsimile of a Jedi's signature weapon.

"Are you just going to sit on the ship and sulk again?" she teased, swiveling back and forth playfully in her chair beside him in the _Bes'uliik_'s cockpit, wearing her new robes.

"Not at all," he replied. "I actually want to see how you're going to get your _chakaarla _self into trouble and need me to bail your _shebs_ out."

"That's the spirit." She refused to let him dampen her mood; he could be such a killjoy sometimes and she wished he'd lighten up. This was going to be a fun job.

"And just how do you plan on convincing people you can command the Force?"

At that, she struck a philosophical pose and haughtily stated, "A Jedi does not command the Force, but rather listens for its direction and carries out its will."

The Mandalorian glanced over at her, cocking an eyebrow. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you really were one of those spoon benders, judging from that prattle."

"Aw, that's sweet of you to say," she replied. "As for proof, I have this."

She pulled a small, spherical seeker remote from a pouch on her belt, along with a control which she palmed in one hand. With a stealthy flick of a switch, the remote lifted from her grasp and she proceeded to mime with her free hand, as if directing its movement about the cockpit.

"Call me crazy," he said sardonically, "but I don't think a remote's going to be too convincing of your mystical powers."

She wrinkled her nose at him and then answered, "You'd be amazed what you can hide this thing in. A hollowed out fruit, for instance. Just put it in place before we start the show and no one will be the wiser."

Buruk snorted doubtfully. "Do you have any more tricks up your sleeve, or is that it?"

"Of course I do, but a girl doesn't reveal all her secrets." She winked at him flirtatiously; she loved it when he got uncomfortable.

Fidgeting in his seat, Buruk was saved by the proximity alert. Clearing his throat, he announced, "Looks like we're coming up on Pelorum." Dropping them out of hyperspace, he then busied himself with bringing them in for a landing, trying his best to ignore her.

###

Lynli wound her way through the marketplace, head high, stepping gracefully as she went; the delightful smells of fruits, fresh breads, herbs, and spices tantalized her nostrils. She passed caged poultry, squawking in protest at being held captive, the skinned corpses of freshly slain jakrabs hanging by their hind legs, and dozens of shoppers whose heads turned in her direction at her approach, their eyes coming to rest on the lightsaber hilt at her hip. Several meters behind her, Buruk stalked through the crowd, dressed in plain attire with his cloak concealing his blasters so as not to attract attention; his Twi'lek partner was doing more of that than he liked already. All throughout the market he heard the same whispered word on everyone's lips: Jedi. Only he noticed her hand surreptitiously place the remote, camouflaged within the rough-textured rind of a pale orange fruit, on a stack of similar goods.

Somewhere in the throng, a pair scuffled; Lynli quickened her stride to confront the brawlers as Buruk placed a wary hand on a hidden blaster butt, just in case. The surrounding consumers parted at her approach and she found amidst a loose circle of onlookers two ragged men. They'd bruised each other's faces and torn their clothes and still they traded blows.

"Excuse me," Lynli called out, getting their attention. "What's the meaning of this?"

One of the fighters, a man with a black eye, spat blood into the dirt and stabbed an accusing finger at his opponent. "This son of a Sith harlot swindled me!" he shouted for all to hear.

"The hell I did!" the other man countered, wiping at bloody nostrils then brushing his mussed hair out of his face with the same hand. Even Buruk felt a little disgusted by that. The shopkeeper made a lunge at the angry customer but was held back by a group of spectators.

"Perhaps I can be of assistance," Lynli offered. Reaching out her hand, she pressed a button on the hidden control and called the camouflaged remote to her grasp, eliciting awestruck gasps from the gathered crowd. "I am Kazmer'ra, Jedi Knight. I came here when I learned your world had been seeking the Order's assistance for some time." That wasn't entirely untrue, Buruk had to admit. They had checked the HoloNet for a planet that had been requesting Jedi help from Coruscant but without reply; Lynli had reasoned the people there would be more desperate and welcoming of her charade. "I've come to help in any way I can."

"Well you can start by making this poodoo-sucking scum give me my money back!" demanded the customer, brandishing a small black statuette of a bantha with glittering gold horns.

"Please explain to me what happened."

Lifting the bantha, the customer said, "I bought this piece of shavit from him after he told me it was a priceless artifact made of pure onyx! Took it offworld to try and make a profit and found out it was a cheap trinket!"

"I see," Lynli replied. Then, turning to the shopkeeper, she asked, "And what do you have to say about this?"

"He should've taken a better look at," he insisted. "You know the saying, 'buyer beware'."

"You did lie about its value," she pointed out. "Don't you feel the slightest responsibility for misleading him?"

"As far as I knew it was the only one of its kind."

"That's a kriffing lie!" the customer shouted, swinging the statue; someone caught his arm and held him back. "There's a shop not twenty meters down the way with a whole mess of them on its shelves, and for a lot less than what you took from me!"

Lynli appeared to take a moment to think things through. "It seems to me," she said at last, "that you owe this man a refund of the difference in cost."

"What?" the shopkeeper sputtered. "No way! All sales are final!"

She leveled an intense stare his way, apparently focusing for maximum guilt. "I insist," she stated flatly.

He stared at her a few moments longer, gaze flicking between her eyes and the lightsaber at her belt. Buruk stood ready to jerk his pistol in case of trouble.

At last, the shopkeeper nodded, a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead, and said, "Okay… fine." Lynli smiled appreciatively and walked on, slipping the fruit-covered remote into her belt.

A week went by, Lynli parading herself about with her bag of tricks; a deck of rigged sabacc cards served to convince the locals she was a mind reader in addition to her apparent telekinesis. She carried on settling disputes and taking advantage of their generosity. It wasn't long before the _Bes'uliik_'s hold was full of goods, "donated" by the good townsfolk she was "helping": sacks of grain, some livestock, medical supplies, gemstones, and alcohol were all packed away in shipping crates for them to fly away and sell on some remote trading world for double their value. Underhanded though it was, Buruk had to hand it to her; she was indeed a crafty one. He suddenly didn't feel so foolish about her getting the drop on him way back when they first met.

###

Jomel Tunray dropped his Delta-6 fighter out of hyperspace and detached from its hyperdrive ring, taking a few moments to call on the Force to calm his nerves. This was his first real mission alone; he'd been promoted to full knighthood only a week ago and was immediately assigned to help the people of Pelorum. They had been asking for help from the Jedi Order for months now and his ascension had created just the opening needed to send them aide. He set course for the planet's largest settlement and made ready to land, looking forward to all the good works he would do.


	7. Black Magic Woman Part 2

It always ended the same; no matter how fiercely Buruk fought, he could never defeat them all. His comrades fell around him to the packed snow, steam rising from bloodless slashes that gaped in their lifeless bodies. Buruk did the only thing he could, aiming and firing, aiming and firing, aiming and firing; a desperate, futile struggle against his self-righteous attackers. None of his shots hit their mark, ricocheting harmlessly into the trees. The robed warriors descended upon him like a cloud, utterly impassive as they struck him down. It always ended with a flash of green light across his vision and those emotionless faces, those heartless _Jetiise_, looking down on him as he fell alongside his brethren, and then calmly leaving him without a second thought to continue the slaughter.

###

Buruk blinked into calm wakefulness in his quarters aboard the _Bes'uliik_ reflexively placing a hand over the scar that cut vertically across his artificial right eye.

Sitting up, he took a deep breath, savoring the smell of fresh cooking wafting in from the galley down the corridor. _That smells _so_ good_, he thought, his mouth watering in anticipation. Slipping out the door, he padded barefoot through the hall and peered into the kitchen. He found Lynli there, wearing an apron over her Jedi disguise, frying bacon over the heating unit. For weeks she'd been posing as a Jedi on the Outer Rim world Pelorum, settling disputes between its citizens and conning them into offering her rewards for her service. "What? They haven't built you a palace to live in yet?" he taunted, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms over his bare chest.

She snorted derisively at him. "After how hard I had to work to get on this ship in the first place?" she asked, tossing a lekku over her shoulder. "You're not getting rid of me _that_ easy. And I thought the success of my latest venture called for a little celebration with something besides ship's rations."

Shrugging his shoulders, he levered himself off the doorframe and replied, "Well, I'm sold. Can't turn down a decent meal."

Now it was her turn to do the teasing. "Oh, you wanted some? I _guess_ I could share the fruits of my labors."

"Ha ha," he muttered, taking a seat at the table. "Speaking of which, how much longer do you plan on keeping up this charade? I'm getting a little edgy with you prancing around with your bag of tricks every day. The hold's already full and we should be making our exit." In a darker tone, he added, "Not to mention how I feel about Jedi…"

She batted big, yellow eyes at him, asking, "What? You don't enjoy making people's lives better?"

"I enjoy making my life better," he said pointedly. "It's only a matter of time before this con of yours falls apart."

"Oh ye of little faith," she chided. "Eat up."

###

The seasons had begun to shift and a chill breeze swept through Pelorum's capital as Jomel Tunray wound his way through the marketplace. He wore the simple woolen robes of the Jedi Order, his arms tucked within the warm sleeves, and his hair remained cropped closely to his skull, having only recently severed his Padawan braid and been named a full knight. He strode evenly amongst the people, head high and shoulders back, projecting waves of assurance through the Force that he hoped would give them the sense that help had arrived.

Strangely, no one looked at him with the sort of awe or wonderment he had grown accustomed to while traveling with his master through the Outer Rim; if anything, they treated him as if Jedi were commonplace on their world. They seemed to radiate a sense of assurance and hope completely unrelated to the feelings he had tried to project. Such an attitude didn't mesh with the urgent, even desperate, requests for aide Pelorum had been sending to the Temple for months and Jomel wondered what could have happened in the intervening time.

"Er, pardon me," he stammered tapping a passerby on the shoulder to gain his attention. "I'm Jomel Tunray, Jedi Knight. Could you perhaps direct me to the governor's hall?"

"Sure," the squat man grunted, hefting a basket over his shoulder. "Just follow me."

"Thank you sir," Jomel replied, bowing his head respectfully and following closely on his guide's heels. As they made their way through the busy streets, he cleared his throat and asked, "Please don't take this the wrong way, but everyone here seems so… content with their lives."

The guide snorted and looked back at Jomel over his shoulder. "What'd you prefer? Depression and resentment?"

The Jedi stumbled a step, regained his footing, and quickly said, "No, no… I just mean that the messages we received on Coruscant conveyed a much stronger feeling of desperation. It's as if all your problems have resolved themselves before I even got here."

"You must've taken the scenic route, kid. Another Jedi got here weeks ago and has been doing your job for you."

Jomel stopped dead in his tracks. "Another Jedi?" He hadn't sensed the presence of another when he'd entered orbit. Were his senses so dull?

"Yeah, a Twi'lek name 'a Kazmer'ra," the guide explained. "Sweet lady, been working wonders here." He paused and turned around when he realized his follower had stopped. "She's really put those racketeers in the market in their place."

"That's good news," Jomel replied, sighing inwardly. So much for his first mission as a fully fledged Jedi Knight. "Could you perhaps take me to meet her instead, so I can thank her for tending to your needs?" _And apologize for my tardiness_, he added mentally.

###

Buruk strolled aimlessly through the city streets, biting into a ripe muju fruit and savoring the sweet juice as it filled his mouth. With the dropping temperatures signaling the change of the season, he'd bought a jacket made of tanned nerf hide with a fur collar, and kept his braid wrapped firmly around his neck. He dreaded the coming winter and wanted to raise ship soon. Every day that passed brought the coming snowfall that much closer. He'd been having intermittent flashbacks and that was one particular reminder he'd rather not deal with.

Lynli, as usual, was out and about keeping up appearances. He refused to acknowledge it in front of her, but he couldn't deny that she had done something good for these people, even if she had been deceiving them from the start and taking their belongings under false pretenses. He'd last seen her entertaining a group of children with her new floating act; she'd somehow managed to jury-rig her remote's repulsorlifts into her boots so she could levitate about a meter off the ground. _Okay, so that's _two_ things I won't admit to her; she's done something good and she's a damn fine mechanic. _He chuckled as he recalled her practicing the performance for hours each night, taking numerous spills that had left Buruk in stitches.

As he wandered, he stepped aside to make way for a small local man carrying a basket who was followed by a blonde kid barely out of his teens. He and the youth exchanged sidelong glances as they passed and Buruk caught sight of something silver glinting in the sunlight at the edge of his vision. Turning to follow them with his gaze, he recognized the boy's heavy drab cloak as the same kind worn by Jedi. His eyes widened and he made his way back through the crowd, circling around ahead of them to get a better look. Silently, he began his mantra.

_The Mistress of Flasks, valued at positive thirteen, plus the Queen of Air and darkness, valued at negative two, equals positive eleven…_ _The Five of Flasks, valued at negative five, plus the The Evil One, valued at negative fifteen, equals negative twenty…_ _The Two of Coins, valued at positive two, plus the Three of Staves, valued at negative three, equal negative one, but when coupled with the Idiot, valued at zero, form an Idiot's Array…_

He crept closer, staring hard at the young man's face, the blonde hair cropped close to his skull, the blue eyes as clear and guileless as water. The Jedi looked familiar, like a specter out of the past. Buruk swore he knew him.

Then it clicked.

He'd seen the lad only a few months ago, while fighting for his life on Galidraan. He'd had a long, thin braid on the right side of his head back then, but it was undeniably the same Jedi. The realization flooded through him and he fought to keep his mind clear. He couldn't afford to have that spoon-bender in his head.

He turned and rushed off to find Lynli. Then a thought occurred to him; changing directions, he headed back to the ship instead.

###

"… and then she grabs her lightsaber and she says, 'Either your prices get cut in half or you do!'" Jomel's guide chuckled. The local been talking nonstop about the Jedi Kazmer'ra since he'd agreed to help him find her.

Jomel found the stories distressing, as she seemed to not conduct herself as a proper Jedi, using veiled threats and displays of power instead of calmly talking things through to reach a settlement. What he found especially troubling was that she had actually accepted rewards for her deeds. That went directly against the Jedi Code. "Uh, tell me Shaen, has Kazmer'ra ever seemed angry or aggressive? Resorted to violence unprovoked, maybe?"

"Not at all, Jedi," Shaen, his guide, answered. "In fact, she's never even lit up that lightsaber of hers."

_Well, that's reassuring_, Jomel thought as they walked down the boulevard. "Is that her?" he asked, nodding toward a violet-skinned Twi'lek woman in brown robes, twirling through the air to the amusement of a crowd of younglings.

"Yep, that's her alright. I tell ya, that Force a yours sure is a wonder to behold."

She wove through the air, less gracefully than Jomel would have expected, spinning and looping about. "Indeed," he replied. "It's remarkable." Then, turning to his guide, he bowed his head and added, "Thank you very much for leading me."

Shaen nodded he head and went on his way, content that he could be of assistance to a Jedi.

Jomel stood by patiently, waiting for Kazmer'ra to finish. Throughout her display he sensed nothing of the Force in her; so, she was nothing more than a simple shyster. The Council would want him to put a stop to her activities.

When she finished her performance and the younglings dispersed, Jomel mustered his courage and approached. "Excuse me," he called, clearing his throat. "Jedi Kazmer'ra?"

She spun easily on her heel, fixing him with a neutral stare. "Yes," she answered. "May I help you?"

He bowed respectfully, a gesture she returned. "I am Jedi Jomel Tunray, I was sent by the Council to see to this planet's needs." Standing straight, he continued, "But it would seem you have things well in hand."

"Yes, well I was merely passing by. I apologize if I've stepped on your toes."

He stepped in closer, dropping his voice to just above a whisper. "You've done far more than that. I know you're not a Jedi." She watched him from the corner of her eye. "You're nothing but a charlatan, a con artist who's taken advantage of these good people's trust for her own selfish gain. You should be ashamed."

Suddenly he felt something, a mere pinprick in his neck. His eyes widened in surprise as he reached up and pulled free a small dart. His vision blurred and he stumbled forward into the Twi'lek's arms. His limbs wouldn't respond to his commands and he struggled to maintain his consciousness but he felt so tired. At last he sank to the street and everything went black.

###

Lynli stared at Buruk, her thoughts a mix of shock and relief. "What did you do to him?" she demanded.

The Mandalorian stepped forward, raising his right arm to show he was wearing one of his gauntlets. "Toxic dart," he answered. Kneeling down to feel the Jedi's pulse, he added, "Good, he's still alive."

"Thank Providence for that!" Lynli spat, furious at Buruk for not letting her talk her way out. "Do you have any idea what would happen to us if we killed a Jedi?"

He glared up at her, pale green daggers of hate that left her taken aback. "He wouldn't be the first," he growled. Then, under his breath, he added, "_Ra kyr'yc…_"

Lynli planted her fists on her hips and watched in puzzlement as he hefted the Jedi's body onto his shoulder and carried him away. Whatever Buruk planned to do with him, she was sure she wouldn't like it.

###

Jomel awoke to the sound of a low hum in a world of darkness. Fear crept into his mind before quickly being banished from his thoughts, as he focused on the situation objectively. He lay on a cold durasteel floor with his hands and feet bound behind his back. How had he been captured? He'd sensed no malice from the Twi'lek woman, no indication of danger from anywhere around him.

He stretched out with his feelings, trying to get a sense of his surroundings. He was aboard a ship with only two other living beings aboard. One felt anxious, nervous, and even afraid. The other… he felt perfectly calm, neutral, in control. Jomel pressed further, trying to read his captor's thoughts…

_The Endurance card, valued at negative eight, plus The Evil One, valued at negative fifteen, equals negative twenty three, pure sabacc. The Master of Sabers, valued at positive fourteen, plus the Ace of Coins, valued at positive fifteen, equals positive twenty nine, bust. The Four of Staves, valued at negative four, plus the Commander of Flasks, valued at positive twelve, equals positive eight._

_He's playing sabacc?_ Jomel thought.

He flinched as a masculine voice said in accented Basic, "Here are the facts, _Jetii_." Jomel hadn't even known the man was in the room. How had he snuck up on him? "Your hands and feet have been placed in cloth sacks and bound behind your back. You've been placed within a cell aboard my ship and we've entered hyperspace. The cell walls have been modified into a force cage which causes electrical burns on contact. Your lightsaber and other equipment have been disposed of."

"What's this about?" Jomel asked calmly. "Who are you?"

"_Ni Mando'ad_," his captor replied.

"You're a Mandalorian," Jomel said cautiously. The scars of the past were not easily forgotten. "What do you want?"

"Eight months ago you were part of a task force sent to Galidraan. What are the names of the eight others who survived?"

"I won't tell you," Jomel asserted. Drawing in a deep breath through his nostrils and exhaling slowly out his mouth, he pressed with all his might upon his captor's will. "You will release me from my bonds."

"That won't work, _Jetii_. I keep my mind closed off to your kind."

The fear began to creep back into Jomel's heart. How had this Mandalorian resisted his attempt at mental manipulation? "Can we talk about this?"

"That's why you're here; to talk. Give me the names."

"Never."

No sooner had he uttered the word, than waves of intense pain jolted through his body, contracting his every muscle at once, searing his nerves. He screamed, bolts of electricity arcing between his teeth, writhing in agony on the cell floor.

When the pain subsided he could smell burned meat, and the voice said, "Who were your eight surviving companions?"

"Is that the best you can do?" Jomel spat. Again the pain coursed through him, every nerve in his body crackling in anguish. His screams echoed off the bulkheads as he squirmed, a deep, animal part of his brain forcing him to try and escape the source of his suffering.

The interrogation went on for days. His captor didn't always use the electrical field generated by the force cage. Sometimes loud blasts of noise were used to keep him awake, fogging his mind as extreme fatigue set in. This he enhanced with a lack of any food or water. The Force could only fuel his endurance for so long and Jomel became steadily weaker, delirious. He could smell food only meters from him as the man ate outside his cell. Occasionally he'd be sprayed relentlessly with water from the fire suppressor in the ceiling above him.

There was no set routine to any of it; the Mandalorian did everything at random to keep Jomel on edge. The Jedi had known about torture on a purely intellectual level, but the actual experience was something so incredibly horrendous, it was unimaginable. How any sentient could withstand such things, he could not fathom.

_There is no death, there is only the Force_, he thought weakly.

###

"That's it," Buruk announced, stepping into the galley where Lynli sat, perfectly quiet for a change. "He's dead."

She looked at him with wide eyes, clenching her hands into fists. "Why?" she choked out hoarsely. "Why did you put that poor boy through that?"

He stood in the doorway, eyeing her carefully. Then, after a moment, he said, "Retribution."

"Because he found me out?" she demanded, leaping to her feet. "He didn't deserve what you did to him!"

"You don't know what that _Jetii_ deserved!" Buruk roared. His sudden ferocity came at her like a fist, throwing her back into her seat. "I only let him live as long as I did to get what I needed from him, then I put him out of his misery!"

"You're a monster," she whispered. "Nothing but a heartless killer."

"I'm a killer, all right," he replied. "I have been my whole life. Still think you want to stick around?"

She stared at the tabletop, shoulders hunched. She hadn't looked this afraid to be around him since he'd pulled her out of a crippled starfighter and locked her up in a cell. "No," she answered in a dead voice. "I'm not sure."


	8. Ballroom Blitz

"… Eight hundred, nine hundred, and that makes fifty thousand," said the Zabrak as he counted out credit notes into Buruk's waiting hand. He was an independent dealer with a modest reputation whom the Mandalorian met with in Chalmun's Cantina in Mos Eisley to unload the cargo he and his soon-to-be ex-partner had picked up on Pelorum. He threw him a hard look and added, "That was harder than you'd think to come by; not many sentients deal in cash credits these days, Kelborn."

"Just the ones that don't like to keep business records," Buruk grinned, slipping the money into his inside vest pocket. "You know I can always digitize them at the bank myself, Nilak." Sliding out of the booth, he shook the Zabrak's hand and left.

He found Lynli waiting for him outside, leaning against the building for shade. When he stepped out into the blinding double-sunlight, she levered herself away from the wall and fell into step beside him. "Well?" she asked flatly. "What'd we take?"

"Twenty-five thousand a piece," Buruk answered, digging into his vest pocket and pulling out a fold of credits. "Here's your share; now I reckon you'll be on your way?"

The Twi'lek snatched the proffered credits from his hand and jammed them into a pouch on her belt. "Just the way you want it. It was fun while it lasted, though."

Buruk snorted. "For you maybe. Did you fix my engine room door?" He felt uncomfortable; he told himself it was the heat, making the sweat pour down his back until his shirt clung to his skin and left salty rings around the collar and armpits. Tatooine definitely rated high on his list of hellish worlds.

"It's fixed," she answered, lekku twisting themselves up crookedly. Buruk knew they signed moods and feelings, though he couldn't read them himself.

"Good" he said, coming to a stop. "Don't want to find myself locked out when I need to make repairs to her. I've got a bit of traveling to do."

"Oh, yeah," she replied, glaring yellow daggers at him. "Have fun with your murders." Without another word she turned and walked off, into the crowded Mos Eisley streets. Buruk watched her go, then hopped onto his swoop and cruised on his way to the Lucky Despot hotel. He didn't notice the Rodian detach himself from the shadows of a nearby alley and follow her into the teeming mob.

###

Ballador Desilijic Dessh licked blubbery lips in anticipation as he reclined on his hoverchair. His cousin Jabba had generously loaned him a private conference room in his Mos Eisley townhouse to conduct an interview with a group of particularly ruthless low-lives who came highly recommended. _With any luck, they'll be well suited to the task I have in mind,_ Ballador thought, straightening his fez.

It had taken months to learn the identity of the man who had broken into his Nal Hutta office, held him at gunpoint, and coerced him into revealing confidential information, but tracking down Buruk Kelborn became remarkably simple afterward; the man was registered with the Bounty Hunter's Guild and had a habit of leaving bodies everywhere he went. Letting a mere human threaten him and walk away had been a major disgrace on Ballador and the Desilijic kajidic. Uncle Jiliac had charged Ballador with erasing the shame before Jiliac erased him.

The door at the end of the room hissed open and a tall, stout human with scraggly black hair that was thinning noticeably on top stepped in. He wore a pair of red leather leggings and a blaster rode his hip. "I understand you got work for me and my crew?" he asked in a gravelly voice. He stopped before a large conference table and remained standing, thumbs planted in his belt.

"Yes," Ballador answered in Huttese, his voice a booming rumble. "Yes I have something you and your crew may be interested in." He tapped a button on his hoverchair's console and a panel on the tabletop irised open, revealing a single credit chip. "One hundred thousand credits, and another hundred thousand when the job's done." As the clan accountant, Ballador had as close to free reign over kajidic finances as one could get, allowing him to make an offer almost no sentient could refuse.

The pirate's eyes lit up as he reached for the chip. "But—," Ballador continued abruptly, causing the man's hand to freeze in midair above the tiny wafer. "If you accept this money, you're in it until it's over. No backing out."

"What's the job," the human asked carefully, eyeing the Hutt.

_So this lesser species _does_ have some intelligence after all_, Ballador thought with some amusement. "I want you to find this man and bring him to me, alive if possible." He pressed another button and a hologram flickered to life of a human male with long red hair braided into a ponytail thrown around his disgustingly pale neck like a scarf. He wore sand-gold Mandalorian armor and over his right eye was a nasty disfiguring scar.

"He's staying at the Lucky Despot hotel here in Mos Eisley and has been seen traveling in the company of this woman." The next hologram that appeared was of a violet-skinned Twi'lek female with golden eyes. Beyond that Ballador saw nothing remarkable about her appearance though he knew some Hutts, his cousin included, found humanoid females to be rather pleasing to the eye. The pirate's brows shot up in surprise and his eyes went hungry. "You may deal with the female as you like. Do you accept?"

His guest snatched up the credit chip and stuffed it into a pocket, then said, "For those two, I'd do this job for free. Captain Tyrrel and his Redlegs are at your service, your Excellency."

"Good!" Ballador boomed as Tyrrel turned and stalked out. "Good!"

###

Lynli stormed through the crowded streets of Mos Eisley, wearing her ire like a cloak; in spite of her slight frame and her species' easily victimized reputation, everyone in her path tripped over themselves to get out of her way, knowing better than to meddle with a being whose eyes smoldered with the kind of wrath that shone in hers.

_Insufferable, ungrateful, murdering, lowlife!_ her mind screamed. _Does he even try to explain himself? _No!_ He sees the opportunity to get rid of me and just goes on with his life!_ She wanted to go find Buruk and give him an earful, make him tell her why he'd had to torture information out of that Jedi they'd run into on Pelorum, but resisted.

"Hmph," she snorted, crossing her arms over her chest and raising her chin, imagining herself looking down her nose on the contemptible Mandalorian. _If he wants to go off on some suicidal one-man war against the Jedi, then let him. Good riddance to just another sleazy bounty hunter scumbag._ She stood like that for a moment, affirming her resolve, before grabbing the nearest passerby's collar and furiously shouting into his face, "He didn't even give me a 'thank-you' for keeping that junk-heap of his flying!"

"Huh? What're you talking about lady?" the befuddled man cried, quaking in fear at being so manhandled by the petite Twi'lek.

Snapping out of it, Lynli blushed sheepishly, her violet cheeks turning a rosy hue. "Oh, uh, sorry about that," she stammered, releasing her hold. The man quickly trotted down the street, putting as much distance between them as he possibly could.

Lynli continued on her way, with no particular destination in mind. That seemed to characterize her life over the past year. She'd been a slave once, held in servitude to a Black Sun Vigo of great importance, a Hutt called Zordo Desilijic Fadj. She had killed His Bloatedness in order to escape that awful life and had been on the run ever since, bounty hunters like Buruk on her heels wherever she went as the crime syndicate demanded retribution in blood.

Except Buruk was different. At first he'd been just another dumb mark, easily drugged and escaped. In their second encounter, he'd wised up considerably, not falling for the same tricks and feminine wiles again. Both times he'd helped her out of tight spots, though hardly for selfless reasons; first by fighting off a gang of swoop jockeys calling themselves the Redpants or something like that, and again by pulling her out of a disabled CloakShape fighter before she froze to death in deep space. He'd been after her bounty on both occasions and she'd been forced to slice into his ship's security systems to prevent him from turning her in but after than he'd tolerated her presence and she'd found something of a home aboard the _Bes'uliik_.

So maybe she _had_ killed in the past, but that had been under completely different circumstances. If she hadn't escaped she would have died, and if she'd left Zordo alive, his remaining slaves would have paid the price. Buruk had been cruel, the way he kept that poor Jedi kid on the edge of death for days, torturing him for information on other Jedi. What gave him the right to call her a murderer when he planned to go on a killing spree? _You're nothing but a damned hypocrite, Buruk,_ she thought bitterly.

She continued down the dusty byways, wandering aimlessly through the city. She needed to find work, by which she meant someone to con; maybe a game of three card shuffle, or perhaps something more in-depth, such as an insurance scam.

She tensed as a large hand landed heavily on her bare shoulder, squeezing roughly and stopping her dead in her tracks while another hand pulled her blaster from its holster. "Remember me, girlie?" a male voice whispered harshly in her ear. "You still owe me kiss." Lynli's eyes darted about wildly; they were standing in the middle of an alley, a bad place to get caught unawares.

Her assailant threw her forward violently. She tried to turn with her momentum but only succeeded in slamming sideways into the solid adobe wall. Rubbing her shoulder where it impacted the building, she found herself cornered by three men with red leather leggings, the swoop gang from the _Wheel_. Their spokesman gazed at her lasciviously, licking his lips in anticipation as his fellows chuckled darkly and she shrank away in fear. Pulling a vibroblade from his belt, he held it millimeters from the corner of her eye, grabbing her chin and pressing her against the wall with his free hand. "This ain't gonna be over quick-like," he crooned. "And you ain't gonna enjoy it, neither." The others laughed a little harder.

Her heart raced in panic, adrenaline pumping wildly through her system as he lowered the blade and slashed through her clothing, exposing her skin. _No no no no _no_!_ her mind screamed at her, wrestling with her terror-frozen muscles to _do something!_ She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing back tears. _Not again_, her own thoughts were a whimpering plea.

The thug threw her to the ground and forced her legs apart, climbing on top of her. With his vibroblade humming just above her throat, he whispered, "Consider yourself lucky; you'll be alive long after your boyfriend's food for the womprats."

Lynli gasped, the skin of her neck moving dangerously close to the vibrating blade. They weren't just after her; they wanted revenge on Buruk as well. Who knew what they'd do when they found him. These people were scum, the dregs of the galaxy; killer or not, Buruk was still light-years above whatever sewer they crawled out of.

The hopelessness melted away as she gritted her teeth and let instinct take over. The fool on top of her had left her hands free; with her left, she grabbed his wrist, squeezed, and twisted the weapon away from her body. Simultaneously, she smashed her fist into his throat, eliciting a choking gargle that smelled of lum as his eyes bulged in shock. Finally, just for good measure, she threw her knee with all of her might into his stomach as she hurled him aside.

His startled companions gaped in disbelief for a moment as their friend was overpowered by the seemingly delicate female, before leaping into action, a moment long enough for Lynli to grab her appropriated blaster from the foiled rapist and train it on them. They stopped dead in their tracks, hands hovering above their own weapons and eying her warily as she regained her feet. "Drop them," she warned, voice full of acid. Instead of doing as she said, they decided to try their luck. She gunned them both down easily, then turned to the man left gasping on his back.

Holding her torn shirt closed with her free hand, she glared down at him hatefully, a look he returned with one of abject terror; they had traded places dramatically, he now at her mercy. She pointed the blaster at his face and pulled the trigger. _Chaos take your mercy_, she thought bitterly and spat on the corpse's now unrecognizable features.

She spent several minutes staring glassy-eyed at the body before her as her heart rate dwindled and the shivers set in despite the heat of the twin suns overhead; the adrenaline was leaving her body and she was starting to crash. Then she pulled herself together, remembering her friend was in danger. Taking the dead man's jacket, she holstered her weapon and set off at a dead run through the streets. "Have to find Buruk," she told herself, gasping for breath. They'd be on him like an army in no time.

###

The Lucky Despot, formerly the _Lucky Despot_, was an old cargo freighter that had ceased operating long ago. It had since been bought and sold, towed into the middle of Mos Eisley, half-buried in the sand, and remodeled from the ground up into a luxury hotel—as far as luxury went on a dirt ball like Tatooine—with a thriving casino on the upper level.

Buruk sat alone on the bed of his sparsely furnished private room on the starboard side of the lower deck, toward the ship's aft. He browsed through his datapad for local bounty listings, part of him worried he'd come across Lynli's. His share from the cargo sale had bought him fuel and other consumables for the ship but he needed to find work if he was going to track down the names he'd gotten from the late Jedi Tunray.

Someone rapped on the door. Buruk looked up, puzzled; he hadn't so much as called for room service, let alone expected any visitors. Swinging his legs off the bed, he stood, placing the datapad on a wooden end table, and stepped up to the door, checking the vibrodagger in its sheath on his belt.

No sooner had the door hissed open than a massive fist shot forward, smashing into his jaw and rocking him backward. Without thinking, Buruk launched himself forward and threw a punch to his attacker's midsection, his fist connecting with hard muscle that didn't give a centimeter. The giant standing in the doorway lashed out again with a left hook that Buruk ducked beneath, pulling his vibrodagger and activating it all in one motion, plunging the humming blade into his assailant's left shoulder.

The intruder didn't even flinch; grabbing Buruk's wrist with his left hand, he immobilized the weapon then, with sheer brute strength, _forced_ Buruk to pull the knife back out, dripping blood to the durasteel floor as the Mandalorian looked on in stunned amazement. With his wrist still locked in an iron grip, the big bruiser grabbed Buruk with his free hand and slammed him against the wall once, twice, three times; each time Buruk swore he could feel his teeth rattling within his skull. He was then lifted into the air and pinned against the wall, the giant pushing the blade still gripped in Buruk's hand slowly toward his chest.

Vainly Buruk tried to resist the man's strength, pushing against his own arm with his free hand. He succeeded only in redirecting the weapon, plunging the vibrating blade into his own shoulder, letting out an agonized scream. The giant released him, pulling the dagger free and tossing it aside, then backhanded Buruk, spinning him to the ground. Stars danced before his eyes as he shook his head clear and ignored the throbbing in his arm; Buruk grabbed the end table he'd set his datapad on and swung it with all his might, smashing it into kindling against his attacker's knees.

In a flash he was back on his feet, both hands wrapped around what remained of one of the table's legs, and slammed it against the side of the giant's head. The man spun halfway around, then slowly turned back to Buruk, bringing himself up to his full height. Buruk was taken aback by the man's resilience, feeling nervousness creep in at the edges of his mind as he got his first really good look at his attacker. He stood over two meters tall, a shock of blonde hair crowning a head that seemed to connect directly to his shoulders, his neck was so thick. From head to toe he rippled with muscle and his eyes possessed a crazed, animal bloodlust. Buruk swung again for his midsection and this time the giant caught the wooden leg and swung it around, taking Buruk off his feet and sending him flying across the room.

The next thing Buruk knew, he was being lifted off the floor and hurled through the open doorway into the hallway, slamming face-first into the far wall. He dragged himself to his hands and knees but the big man slammed his doubled fists into Buruk's shoulders, throwing him back to the floor. Buruk tried to crawl, wincing each time he put his weight on his wounded arm, limping a short distance away. The giant then grabbed him by his collar and dragged him down the corridor to the turbolift, Buruk too weak to even struggle, occasionally throwing the Mandalorian into the walls as he went for good measure.

At the turbolift, the giant hurled Buruk into the small compartment and placed a single large foot on his chest to keep him from squirming on the ride up. The Mandalorian took the short respite from the beating to clear his fogging mind and regain some of his strength.

When the doors opened onto the upper deck, he was once again thrown unceremoniously out into the café area, tumbling over a table and spilling the patrons' drinks. He tried to grab one of the bottles and swing but his assailant caught his wrist easily and he received another large fist to the face for his trouble. The giant then wrapped his fingers around Buruk's throat and lifted him into the air, shaking him like a small animal. Prying as his fingers, Buruk placed both his feet on the man's stomach and shoved with all his might, breaking free of his grip and sending himself flying back onto yet another table, flipping head over heels, and hitting the floor on his stomach as customers ran from the brawl in all directions.

Regaining his feet, Buruk grabbed a chair and smashed it over the man's head, staggering him back a few paces, but the juggernaut lumbered forward once more, unstoppable. The giant grabbed Buruk's neck with both hands, squeezing, choking the life out of him, as he bent him backwards over the bar. Buruk gasped for breath, once again prying at his fingers, trying to push him away with his legs.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a violet-skinned Twi'lek, Lynli, standing at the end of the bar, the only person not panicking, and thought he must be hallucinating. She turned casually to the bartender and said, "Bottle of whiskey, please?" The barkeep complied and Lynli stepped behind the giant thug and shattered the bottle over his enormous head, the shards sprinkling down onto Buruk.

The big man released his grip on the Mandalorian and turned to face this new threat, stalking toward her as she backed away slowly toward the hotel's access stairs. Buruk sank to the floor, overcome by a fit of coughing as air flowed once more into his burning throat, massaging his neck where large finger-shaped bruises were already beginning to appear. "I just wanted your attention," Lynli stated as she stopped her retreat short of the stairway and struck a martial arts pose that, to Buruk, resembled Teräs Käsi.

The giant looked amused by the little girl trying to intimidate him as if she knew some fancy fighting style and swung for her head. To Buruk's amazement, she sidestepped the blow, captured his wrist in her hand and yanked him past, smashing her heel into the side of his kneecap, producing a sickening snap like a dry brittle twig. Her assailant let loose the first scream Buruk had heard throughout their encounter and after replanting her foot, Lynli followed through with the other, striking the man in the shoulder joint, dislocating the arm entirely.

Leaping to his feet, Buruk roared a savage war cry as he charged the stumbling thug, plowing into him from behind and sending them both tumbling down the stairs, head over heels, while Lynli watched from above. They came to a rest in the sandy street outside the hotel, Buruk staggering to his feet. He looked up at Lynli, blood streaming from his nostrils and his face bruised, eyes glazed; he looked so worn out. "I'll be fine," he croaked, feeling anything but. Then, looking down at his opponent, he saw the man's neck had twisted around at a fatal angle, nearly a hundred eighty degrees, and added, "He won't." The last thing Buruk saw before the world turned black was the darkening sky as the twin suns set pin wheeling above as he toppled over himself.

###

Buruk awoke to a stinging sensation in his left shoulder, lurching forward as his eyes shot open. "Ow!" he cried, jerking reflexively away.

Lynli put a hand on his bare chest and pressed him back down, saying, "Oh deal with it you big baby. It's just disinfectant."

Buruk glanced around the room and discovered he was in his cabin aboard the _Bes'uliik_. He sat silently and listened to the hum of the engines, then after a moment observed, "We're powered up."

"We made the jump to hyperspace a few minutes ago," Lynli confirmed, dabbing at the stab wound in his arm with an antiseptic pad, then applied a self-sealing agent. "You know I thought Mandalorians were supposed to be top notch fighters but that Redleg tossed you around like a rag doll."

"Come on," Buruk retorted, "the guy was a tank." After a long pause, he asked, "Where'd you learn to fight like that anyway?"

"I'll tell you," she answered, putting away the first aid kit and looking him over one last time, "when you explain to me why you hate the Jedi so much."

"Folks in the galaxy seem to think the Jedi will solve all their problems for them. We don't need to rely on Jedi for help," he replied after a long moment of silence. "We just need to look after our own… and sometimes looking after your own takes killing."

"That it does," she agreed distantly, "but that doesn't answer my question."

Buruk heaved a sigh and said, "You wouldn't understand it all. Do you know what it is to trust someone with your very life? Knowing they'll be there for you no matter how thick the _osik_ gets?"

"I thought I was starting to," Lynli replied, looking down at the deck.

"I was betrayed once, by someone I trusted like that," he continued. "I never saw it coming and couldn't deal with it then, and the Jedi took advantage of that, slaughtering our people."

"Slaughter?" she gasped, disbelieving. "Are we talking about the same Jedi here, because last I checked they were all about peace and harmony."

"Look at my face, Lynli," he growled. "Look into my eyes; they're two different colors because one of them is a fake. A Jedi did this to me. Does that look very harmonious to you?

"You want to know what the _Jetiise_ are? What they _really_ are? They're hypocrites. A monastic order of self-entitled aristocrats imposing _their_ ideas about right and wrong on the galaxy. And no matter how _wrong_ their actions, it always gets spun up to make them look noble and benevolent."

"But the Jedi help people," Lynli insisted.

"Tell yourself another bedtime story," Buruk scoffed. "You were a slavegirl once; when did the Jedi ever swoop in and correct that particular injustice?" She stared at him incredulously. "The Republic says 'go' and the Jedi are there in force, lightsabers blazing, but if real injustice is going on they don't lift a finger, so long as it's all quiet on the home front."

"I'd like to believe you're wrong," Lynli whispered. "But I can't argue with my own experiences."

"I want to see justice done," Buruk stated flatly. "These Jedi I'm after deserve to die."

"Get some rest," Lynli ordered, patting his wounded shoulder, eliciting a hiss from him. "I'll keep the ship on course for you."


	9. The Renegade

Smoke drifted through the crowd of sentients gathered around the table in the far corner of the saloon, mingling with the aroma of alcohol and body odor; the aging, noisy atmosphere scrubbers couldn't suck it all up and it just hung there, clinging to beings' clothes, seeping into everything, and adding yet another level of intoxication to the gambling den's patrons. Ryll, giggledust, carsunum, death sticks; Ganhuff Riscan could smell them all, cloying, stinging his nostrils with their siren promise of unimaginable highs. They all paled in comparison to the crutch he relied upon: glitterstim.

He coughed nonchalantly into his hand, fighting through the pain of withdrawal, as he met his opponent's wary gaze with one of good-natured guile. "Five hundred…" he mused in his cultured Coruscant accent, baiting the perspiring Rodian across the table. "Must be a real dandy of a hand." He held the Two of Staves and the negative Eight of Coins, giving him one of the absolute worst hands of his life; his only hope, it seemed, was to bluff the bug-eyed Rodie if he hoped to make the pain go away. Around him, the crowd murmured.

Suspended from the ceiling, the dealer droid rotated in Ganhuff's direction, fixing its photoreceptors on him. "Do you wish to stay, sir?" it asked in its mechanical voice, punctuated with buzzing pops that testified to its age and quality of maintenance.

Taking a sip of brandy from a small tin cup, he took a moment to savor the burning sensation that trickled its way down his throat, letting his aloofness in the heavy tension unnerve the Rodian. Upon setting the cup down gingerly beside his stack of credits, an attractive young saloon girl promptly refilled it. "Why thank you darling," he grinned then, to the droid, he sighed, "Well, I supposed I'm damned if I do… but I'll stay."

"Do you wish to call?" the droid asked pleasantly enough, turning to the Rodian.

The green-skinned bug-eye twitched its proboscis nervously, its tapping foot vibrating the entire table. "I fold," it declared at last, tossing its cards away. Ganhuff smiled, revealing pearly teeth as white as his own pallid flesh, as he reached for the pile of credits in the center of the table. Suddenly the Rodian slammed its hand down on top of the money, pinning it to the surface with long, sucker-tipped fingers. "Tell me you bluff," it demanded in its halting Basic.

Ganhuff watched it with bloodshot hazel eyes and casually leaned back in his seat. Stroking the butt of a blaster riding his hip, he asked, as though speaking to a child, "Why whatever is the matter, friend? Are we cross?"

The crowd waited in anticipation of the first shot. They were disappointed when, after several tense seconds, the Rodian released its hold and Ganhuff went about filling his pockets with the credit chips, all seven hundred fifty three of them; he'd entered the game with only five and, through luck and the dwindling effects of his last hit, had made enough to keep the pain at bay for days. Twirling the tin cup like a gun, he paused at the saloon door, looked back at the dispersing crowd and the despondent Rodian, and waved a jaunty salute. "Good evening."

###

Lynli's stomach grumbled, voicing a cry of despair that matched her disappointed groan at the sight of the empty conservator in the ship's galley. She just stood there, as if staring into the void would make food magically appear out of thin air. Slamming the heavy door shut, she began foraging through the cabinets for anything edible.

"You're wasting your time," Buruk said dully from the open doorway. "We ate the last of it yesterday."

"You mean that dried out poodoo you call fish that tasted like plasboard and smelled like an unbathed, dead Rodian?" she asked pointedly.

"That's the stuff," he answered unperturbed. "Good old long-lasting _gihaal_."

She marched over and began poking him in the sternum. "We haven't had work in days. You're the bounty hunter, hunt us up some food!"

"Funny you should mention that," he replied, batting her hand away easily. "Public transmission just came through on the HoloNet. An open bounty on one Ganhuff Riscan, one hundred thousand credits, live capture."

She stood back and let out a low whistle, impressed by the figure. "A hundred thousand, that's more than I'm worth." She sounded a little disappointed. "What'd he do?"

"The Republic's warrant said he killed twenty-three people."

"A serial murderer?" she blurted out, gold eyes widening. "Are you crazy? No, wait, I already know the answer to that." She glared at the Mandalorian, fists planted firmly on her hips.

"Manslaughter, actually," he clarified for her. "He was last seen on Nar Shaddaa."

"So that's where we're headed?"

"So that's where we're headed."

###

Ganhuff strode out of the spice house with his spirits soaring. Stepping lightly, he let the giddy energy of the glitterstim he'd ingested flow through his body, electrifying his every nerve and sending his mind through the uncharted realms of prescience. His relaxed eyes nearly sparkled with the iridescent blue narcotic as he made his way through the throngs of beings, feeling each of their surface thoughts as if they were his own.

"I feel positively… capital," he declared to the ether, reaching out his hand to the stars as if he could take the galaxy in his palm and observe it like some ancient god.

He made his way aimlessly through the glidewalks and skyways of the megacity, up ramps and down turbolifts, simply riding the crest of a euphoric wave. Eventually Ganhuff became aware that someone was following him at a distance, just what he'd been afraid of. Without faltering, he continued to wander.

Ducking into a service tunnel as if it were merely a flight of fancy, he slowed his stride little by little so his pursuer could catch up. Not twenty meters down the tunnel, he heard the access hatch seal shut and footsteps splashed toward him in the trickle of runoff. "Freeze, Riscan!" a man's voice ordered. Ganhuff stopped in his tracks and raised his hands. "You're coming with me!"

"I'm not particularly inclined to," Ganhuff replied, turning around slowly. He found a human male in shabby clothing holding a blaster on him, hastily pulling a pair of binder cuffs from a belt overburdened with pouches. "Now if you were a beautiful woman…"

"Shut up!" the bounty hunter growled, waving his gun to emphasize the point. Sloppy, even for such an unrefined one as him. "Drop the blaster!"

"I have a sneaking suspicion that yours is set on stun… Mine isn't." He slowly dropped his hands to his sides, hovering just above his weapon's well-worn grip.

"I ain't afraid to shoot you!"

"Say when!" Ganhuff snapped. He knew the bounty hunter would be easy to goad; he was young, eager, and new to the game. Men like him let their egos get the best of them. The drug in his system let him know the exact moment the bounty hunter had made up his mind to fire and in that split second between intention and action Ganhuff has his weapon free of its holster and fired a shot square into the man's belly. He crumpled over, clutching the bloody wound in his stomach, and Ganhuff felt him die.

Just like the others.

And in that instant his soaring spirits came crashing violently to the earth.

###

Buruk, dressed in full _beskar'gam_ stepped off the _Bes'uliik_ onto the worn, jet-blasted landing pad, his helmet tucked under one arm. "Nar Shaddaa's a big place, easy to get lost in," he said. "Obviously why Riscan ran here. But with the right contacts, you can find anything you want."

He turned back to see Lynli standing just inside the airlock, peering out onto the vast cityscape as if someone might be watching. "I know all about this place," she said guardedly. "I have history here. The Hutts have the run of the whole moon."

That's when Buruk noticed she wore a pale blue veil across her features that fluttered as she spoke. She'd also applied a layer of green body makeup and a set of false tattoos to her supple lekku, as well as lenses that turned her gold eyes red. He never would have guessed it was her. "Well, it's a good thing no one will recognize us, right?" He placed his helmet over his head and turned to walk off the landing pad, the sensitive electronics built into it letting him hear Lynli's cautious footsteps behind him. "Show a little backbone, will you? You'll embarrass us."

He didn't see her stick her tongue out at him.

###

Ganhuff hardly ever slept anymore, even though he knew he needed to. He was too energized when he was spiced and was too strung out when he went through withdrawal. It took days for him to burn himself out to the point where he actually could sleep.

He hopped on the glidewalk and watched the city stream by; spotlights, neon signs, street lamps, they all blurred together in a brilliant luminescent dance that hypnotized him. It helped him forget the bounty hunter he'd killed only a few hours before.

Bounty hunters; they'd been a part of his life ever since the accident on Coruscant, pursuing him across the galaxy for the better part of a year now. He'd run aground on Nar Shaddaa hoping to lose himself in the hustle and bustle of the seedy underworld megatropolis that was not unlike a miniaturized version of the galactic capital. They wanted to take him back there so he could be extradited to one of the planets whose people he'd killed and face whatever "justice" they thought appropriate.

Well, he wasn't one to just go quietly.

###

Buruk stood at the bar in a saloon in the Corellian sector, sipping a cup of _shig _through a straw so he didn't have to remove his helmet. It unnerved people when a Mandalorian refused to show his face; made them think trouble was just around the corner. "The bartender says Riscan was here last night, cleaned up a few hands of sabacc, and left on foot. Any luck in the Ryloth district?" he asked into his helmet comlink. He and Lynli had agreed they'd do better digging up information on Riscan if they split up and she had volunteered to search where her own people congregated. They each had his holo and knew how to talk to spice dealers without scaring them off; according to the bio Riscan had a habitual glit-biter.

"A few people have spotted him heading southeast toward the maglev train station," Lynli answered, her voice tinny in his ear.

"Good, check it out," he said. "Maybe he's still there."

"Brilliant idea," she chuckled, voice dripping sarcasm. "And here I thought you were just a pretty face."

Buruk snorted as she cut the transmission and went back to his drink. It was hard to find a place that served _shig_ and he wanted to enjoy its sweet citrus flavor while it was still hot. He was disappointed, however, when another patron bumped into him, spilling it across the bar. "Why don't you stay out of my way?" the oaf demanded, slightly slurring his words.

Buruk turned his head to face him, spitting him square in his T-shaped visor. He was big and flabby; his head shaved smooth, with several tattoos adorning the left side of his face. He wore a sleeveless shirt with sweat stains in it and a pair of blasters hanging in a dual shoulder rig in his furry armpits. Buruk looked away as his stomach turned.

Then the large man shoved him in the shoulder. "I'm talking to you Mando! I said stay out of my way!"

That's when it registered. "You're after Riscan," Buruk stated flatly.

"You got that right," the other bounty hunter growled. "And if you know what's good for you, you'll steer clear."

Buruk turned slowly to face him again, glaring at him through his helmet. "You want to say something, Mando?" the flabby man sneered. Without hesitation, Buruk's head shot forward, smashing his helmet against the bridge of the bounty hunter's nose. The man went down, clutching his face as blood ran through his fingers.

Laying a few credits on the bar, Buruk walked out as if nothing had happened, thinking, _Di'kutla aruetii…_

###

_Some bounty hunter,_ Lynli thought, approaching the train station. _I do all the leg work while he sits around in bars drinking tea._ She glanced around, taking a quick survey of her surroundings as she entered; the lower level consisted mainly of food courts and small shops found in travel terminals the galaxy over. The floors were grey tile that had once been white, having become grimy from years of negligent or faulty cleaning droids. Decorative plants scattered about the terminal had withered to brown husks. Scorch marks, probably from stray blaster shots, pockmarked the once-pristine brushed aluminum-colored walls. Nobody seemed to mind these imperfections; decay and neglect were simply a part of daily life on Nar Shaddaa. Riscan was nowhere in sight.

Turbolifts led up to the second floor where Lynli discovered ticket windows, old flatscreens displaying arrival and departure times, caf stands, and rows of turnstiles leading out to the platforms. A constant stream of sentients flowed through the depot between the ticket counters and the platforms. There were no security checkpoints; this was Nar Shaddaa, after all.

Then she spotted him. He stood at one of the caf stands, taking a steaming cup in one hand and proffering a few credits with the other, smiling appreciatively to the barista. He was in his mid-thirties, had curly brown hair that hung in an unkempt mess to just above his jaw, which bore at least a day's accumulation of stubble. His skin was deathly pale and clammy and his hazel eyes were red-rimmed. He wore an expensive silver shimmersilk vest over a grimy shirt that used to be white and a pair of black slacks and dress shoes that seemed to clash with the worn blaster strapped to his hip. He'd definitely seen better days but still managed to carry himself with an air of nobility. Lynli thought he might have been handsome before the spice had taken its hold over him.

She froze as he began to approach her, caf in one hand while the other dangled just above his blaster. She watched him intently and he returned her gaze as he came near. "Good day madam," he greeted genially with a nod as he passed by and continued on his way. Lynli heaved a sigh of relief, thought for sure he'd recognized her for what she was and would shoot her on the spot. Turning casually around, she watched him approach the ticket window and after a short conversation with the ticketing droid, laid down another handful of credits in exchange for a code cylinder.

Lynli hurried to follow suit, buying her ticket and shadowing Riscan onto the platform, unaware of the Rodian that had in turn followed her. She kept her eyes on the human, her bounty, as he milled about the depot, casually sipping at his beverage. At last he boarded a maglev train and she stepped in after him, several cars down the line. Settling into a padded seat, she keyed her ear bud and said, "We're on the train."

"Good, he'll have no place to run to," Buruk replied. "Flash me your coordinates and I'll meet you en route. And be charming."

###

Ganhuff sat in the club car, enjoying another round of sabacc with his fellow passengers, dimly aware of the vertical city flashing by the window. The club car was one of the finer parts of the maglev train, offering plush carpet, soft seats with purple velvet cushions, and cocktail waitresses ready to see to his every need. Reaching into his vest, he pulled out the small tin cup he'd taken from the dingy saloon the night before and placed it on a waitress' platter. "Be a dear, fill that up with Alderaanian brandy please," he intoned, turning back to his cards in time to see them shift values at the randomizer's impulse. His bomb out had just turned into a positive twenty one.

He grinned as he laid down his cards, on top of the world. Several players threw in their hands in disgust, getting up and walking away as he raked in their credits, making room for another batch of suckers. "Perhaps sabacc simply isn't your game," he called after them. "Why don't we have a spelling contest instead?"

He was in such high spirits he didn't mind when a hand fell lightly upon his shoulder and feminine fingers traced delicately up his neck, playing with his ear. He looked up beside him and found to his great delight the Twi'lek woman from the train station standing beside him, offering his cup of brandy. "Why thank you darling," he said, taking it from her and lifting it to his lips to sip the cool alcohol.

"Would you mind terribly if I sat and watched," she asked curiously. "I've always had such a fascination for the game."

"I should say you're a sight for sore eyes, dear." Turning to his fellows at the table, he added, "Don't you gentlemen agree?"

"Come on Riscan, just deal the damn cards," one of them, a Zabrak in a rounded cap, urged.

"Please don't take offense to my rusticated fellows, dear," Ganhuff said as she took a seat in his lap, draping her sensuous lekku across his shoulders. "Their vulgarity is a quaint hallmark of the fringe."

"I've made more vulgar noise than that," she cooed in his ear as he dealt the cards between himself and his four opponents. Her voice was soft and sultry and she smelled faintly of cherries. Taking a bottle from a passing waitress, she poured its contents into Ganhuff's cup and said, "Have another, handsome."

"Gladly," he replied, taking a sip as her lekku massaged his back; she was very direct, this woman, something he liked very much. The debutantes of Coruscant had been dull, irritating in their innocence and naiveté. He rather enjoyed that change when he'd entered the fringe life.

They played through several hands, the sabacc pot steadily growing with each successive round, Ganhuff winning more than losing, to his opponents' disgust. "I say, darling, you are the prettiest good luck charm I've laid hands on," he grinned at his companion.

She smiled back coyly, pouring him yet another drink as she rubbed his thigh with her free hand, and said, "Keep playing your cards right and you just might lay hands on me elsewhere…"

Ganhuff chuckled and the other players rolled their eyes in annoyance. "Come on Riscan, show," the Zabrak insisted.

"Very well," he said, laying down an Idiot's Array. "Oops." The four men swore and got up, stalking away from the table as he chuckled to himself. "It's so hard to find non-transitory companionship these days, darling."

She chuckled, placed her hands on either side of his face, and kissed him. She pulled away, gazed seductively into his eyes, and he leaned in hungrily for another.

Coming up for air, he noticed his vision start to blur and a strange coppery taste in his mouth. Staggering to his feet, he pushed her away. _Too much to drink_, he thought as he stumbled down the length of the car. _Need another hit, lie down…_

As he fell, he was vaguely aware of her rushing to his side, calling out to him, asking if he was all right. _Sweet girl…_ he reflected before surrendering to the darkness. Had he not been drinking so heavily, he might have put the cherry scent and the copper taste together and recognized conergin, a standard hospital sedative; but as it was, he simply slipped into unconsciousness on the club car floor while the beautiful green Twi'lek busied herself slapping a pair of binder cuffs around his wrists.

###

Buruk hated using his jetpack in the city. He'd nearly been run into three times cutting through speeder traffic and barely avoided getting hit by refuse from a waste disposal chute. At last his HUD locked onto Lynli's transponder and he vectored toward the maglev train, alighting on its roof. Hugging the car's hull, he neatly avoided death once again as it flew through a tunnel. "_Shabla mir'osik, Siit'ad_," he growled, imagining himself as a red stain splattered against the tunnel ceiling as he shimmied forward toward Lynli's position.

Finally the train exited the tunnel and he was able to continue forward more comfortably until he was directly over the signal. Taking a cutting laser from his belt, he neatly sliced a circular section from the train's durasteel skin and dropped through, landing in a crouch, to the passengers' great surprise.

"What took so long?" he asked, turning to Lynli.

"He wouldn't give me an opening," she answered defensively.

"I told you to be charming," he said absently, tapping a few keys on his datapad and replacing it in its pouch.

"And he was charming right back, unlike some people I know."

Buruk didn't reply, stepping over to Riscan's unconscious form lying on the floor, and hefted him onto his shoulder. "Any trouble with other bounty hunters?" he asked.

"None thanks," she answered, reaching for the emergency brake and pulling the lever. The train decelerated sharply, throwing several people out of their seats as it came to an abrupt stop.

With a roar, the _Bes'uliik_ hovered overhead, summoned automatically by the beckon call Buruk had activated only moments ago. With Riscan thrown over one shoulder, he wrapped an arm around Lynli's waist and fired his jetpack, taking all three of them up to the waiting ship.


	10. Crash

_Doctor Tunbaoth marched through the brightly lit halls on the five hundredth floor of Galactic General Hospital, Coruscant's finest medical facility, shadowed by a plethora of young new interns. He was chief of staff and somehow the loathsome duty of shepherding the new blood around had fallen upon his narrow, sloping shoulders. It was truly a cruel galaxy indeed. To his annoyance, some of them rubbernecked and ogled as they passed orderlies pushing sentients of all species on gurneys and hoverchairs through the wings, but most of them managed to keep a simulacrum of professionalism about them._

_"On a given day, this hospital will treat roughly two hundred million patients," he was saying in an officious voice. "Most of them will be seen for trivial matters requiring care specialized to their species, but a good portion of them are admitted to the OR where they receive treatment from the finest surgeons in the galaxy—" They rounded a corner into one of the facility's hundreds of post-operative wards where physicians where making the rounds, following up on their recent patients. "Like Doctor Riscan here," he finished._

_At that, a scrawny man in his late twenties standing over a Bith snapped his head up from the chart he'd been studying. His curly brown hair shimmered under the bright light of the overhead glow lamps and he had a ruddy complexion that contrasted sharply with his white coat. "I beg your pardon Doctor?" he asked guilelessly, placing the chart back in its place on the patient's bed._

_"Just extolling your virtues to the new batch of interns, my boy," Tunbaoth chuckled, slipping his hands into the pockets of his coat, his middle-aged paunch shaking as he did so. "Finest trauma surgeon on the planet, if I do say so myself."_

_Riscan blushed, looked down to hide a boyish smile as he shuffled his feet nervously. "You're too generous, sir."_

_"Nonsense, you're simply too modest." Turning to his captive audience, the senior physician explained, "Graduated medical school in the top three percent of his class, finished his residency and fellowship in a record two years, made chief surgeon in another three. He's published several papers in the Core World Medial Journal on new techniques that he pioneered and has saved the lives of countless beings from across the galaxy. It won't be long before he has _my_ job!" Tunbaoth chuckled as Riscan blushed again, then turned to continue the walkthrough. Over his shoulder, he said, "If any of you want to go far in this career, I suggest affixing yourselves to his rising star."_

###

It became apparent to Ganhuff that he was awake when he concluded that no fevered dream brought on by the absence of spice in his system could produce a hangover quite like the one he was experiencing then. Opening his eyes to the narrowest cracks he could manage he waited for his vision to focus enough that he looked straight up at a dull durasteel ceiling. Lifting his head slowly, trying to avoid exacerbating the throbbing maelstrom within his skull, he looked about the tiny cell, at the bare floor, narrowly spaced bars with a food slot at the bottom, and the narrow cot on which he lay. "Indeed," he croaked, throat parched, as he laid his head back down, "this is a fitting place for a wretch such as me."

He heard a door hiss open somewhere down the corridor and opened one bloodshot eye for a peek. A Twi'lek female stepped into view, slightly obscured by the prison bars. She had violet skin, golden eyes, and delicate features. "Pardon me darling," Ganhuff choked out. "You seem familiar somehow, have we met before?" He had a feeling.

She held a tray of steaming food and a cup of transparent liquid, presumably water, which she knelt down and pushed through the slot at the base of the door. The scent wafting his way made his stomach growl and he realized how ravenous he felt; glitterstim tended to suppress his appetite as well as his desire for sleep. "Darling, you're a lifesaver," he said, rolling off the cot and lifting the tray with shaky hands, downing half the water first.

She backed away from the bars and turned to go, but held fast when he said, "I'm not angry with you." He was playing a hunch. "You're just trying to get by, same as I was."

"How did—" she began, brows shooting up in surprise.

He swallowed a mouthful of bread and grinned. _You just told me yourself, beautiful._ Aloud, he asked, "Didn't the warrant mention I'm psychic?" He let out a low chuckle and the woman rolled her eyes, leaving in a huff. With a tight smile, Ganhuff continued his meal.

###

Buruk kicked his feet up on the _Bes'uliik_'s control panel, perfectly content. _A hundred thousand in the bank_, he thought, smiling as he watched the hypnotic spiral of hyperspace through the viewport. _At last, things are going my way._ After he dropped off Riscan with the Judicials on Coruscant, he'd pay a few bribes, ask some questions in the lower city, and get locations on a few of his wayward Jedi. _Easy as uj cake._ All seemed right with the galaxy.

The lifttube hissed open behind him and he asked, "How's our bounty holding up?"

"Starting to shake a little," Lynli answered, sitting next to him in the copilot seat and crossing one leg over the other. "He guessed it was me that set him up on the train."

"No worries," Buruk replied, ignoring the disappointment in her tone. "If he starts raving like a _dinii_, just give him a jab with a sedative dart."

"Are you sure we should be turning him in?" she asked, twirling one lekku around her fingertip. "He seems pretty harmless."

"What's got in your head?" he asked. "You forget about the twenty three people he killed or something?"

She peered at him from the corner of her eye and said, "Well he's just so handsome and charming. It's so hard to find a civilized man way out here on the Outer Rim."

Buruk's brow furrowed. "Hey, I'm plenty civilized," he shot back defensively.

"Pfft, please," she laughed. "You're impolite, coarse, and have appalling manners."

He sat up in his chair, jabbing a thumb toward his chest. "I'll have you know I've got great manners."

"Good, then you can prove it the next time you take me out for a fancy dinner."

Buruk opened his mouth to respond, closed it, and turned back to the control panel, muttering, "_Chayaik_…"

Suddenly the _Bes'uliik_ shuddered violently, sharply decelerating and throwing them forward in their seats. Alarms screamed and metal shrieked in their ears as the hyperspace tunnel collapsed into individual stars. "_Osik_!" Buruk hissed, hands flying over the control panel. "Something's pulled us out of hyperspace; I need you down in the engine room, now!" Lynli leapt to her feet and ran for the lifttube, nearly losing her balance as the ship rocked with another impact. "We're taking fire, shields are at seventy percent!"

As the tube hissed closed behind him, a gruff, familiar voice called through the comm, "Hello Kelborn."

Buruk's head snapped in the direction of the aft sensors and his heart sank as he spotted the Doomtreader hanging off their starboard stern. "Montross," he hissed.

"Good eye, kid," the other Mandalorian chuckled. "I know we called a truce back on Ord Mantell, but you're carrying something I want."

"Over my dead body, _sha'buir_," Buruk snarled.

Montross just laughed. "Just what I wanted to hear. Goodbye, Death Watch Brat."

Buruk threw the _Bes'uliik_ through a series of loops and rolls, inwardly cursing himself. _Why'd I have to go and say a thing like that?_ He rolled out to port, then reversed direction as a red warning indicator lit up on the board, throwing the ship to starboard, barely evading a concussion missile that went soaring ahead from beneath him.

Climbing sharply, he armed his ion cannon turret and sprayed a swath of sapphire energy directly behind him, trying to discourage pursuit. Montross wasn't shaken so easily and continued to fire, raking laser bolts across his tail. _Come on, hurry up_, Buruk thought at Lynli, mentally urging her to direct full shield power astern.

At last his prayers were answered and he let out a whoop of joy as the aft shield returned to full power. Opening up on the throttle, he punched in a set of coordinates from the navicomputer and yanked back on the hyperdrive lever. Nothing happened. "_Haar'chak_!" he snarled, bouncing a fist off the control panel. _At least I've still got shields_, he thought, vectoring toward a nearby asteroid field.

Buruk's relief soon turned to dread, however, when his rival opened fire with a pair of heavy cannons that cut right through the aft shields and melted the armor on his ship's engine cowlings. "_Shab_, he must have solar ionization cannons on that thing! Why won't the _manda_ give me a break?"

Darting into the cloud of rocks, he wove through the narrow spaces between asteroids at break neck speed, sometimes narrowly avoiding being pulverized as they collided with each other, throwing off great chucks that became deadly projectiles. The larger Doomtreader had a devil of a time slipping through the asteroid field after the _Bes'uliik_ but continued to take pot shots at it; another blast from Montross' cannons turned Buruk's ion cannons to slag, along with his shield generator.

Now without any protection from the looming asteroids, it appeared that his desperate attempt to lose the pursuer would prove suicidal. Another hit knocked out his sensors, the light panels shattering from the vibration. _Blind and naked, not good._ Desperately, Buruk turned his warhead launcher aft and fired a spread of proton torpedoes at the nearest asteroid, emptying the magazine and shattering the rock into a dozen pieces that hurtled in all directions, creating a screen between him and Montross.

While his pursuer was distracted, Buruk dove toward one of the larger asteroids, its jagged surface rushing up toward him with sickening speed as he rolled over into a deep, narrow canyon in its craggy face. Slowing his ship, he inched along the chasm, searching for a suitable cave to take refuge in; their only hope now was to go to ground and make repairs.

###

Lynli was up to her elbows in the engine, trying to splice cables to bypass the shield generator's damaged power core. A spark jumped and she let out a yelp, sticking a singed finger in her mouth when the ship shuddered like it ran into something, throwing her roughly against the bulkhead. "Owww," she whined, tenderly rubbing a bruised lekku. Keying the shipboard comm unit on the wall, she asked, "Who's flying this thing anyway?"

"Sorry for the rough landing," Buruk apologized. "We're in a cave in the middle of an asteroid field. Weapons are gone and sensors are fried. Also deck two has a hull breach so it looks like you're stuck down there with Riscan."

Lynli grimaced at that. "Well, how about something to lower your spirits?" she asked sarcastically.

"Just give me the short of it," Buruk insisted impatiently.

"Shield generator's had its core melted, the hyperdrive's leaking…" Inspecting the main engines, she added, "And the engines are pretty much shot after that last jolt."

"Perfect," he sighed. "How long?"

"I don't even know if it can be done," she answered.

"I'm shutting down everything but the essential systems so we'll be without comm. My armor can hold pressure so I'll get to work on the hull breach."

"I'll see what I can do down here, just keep your fingers crossed."

###

"Signature lost," the _Hell's Anvil_'s onboard computer informed her captain in an infuriatingly calm feminine voice.

Montross let out a frustrated roar, slamming the palm of his large right hand against a display console. "That _shabla_ little brat couldn't just disappear!" Suspended from the ceiling, his chair swiveled about the blood lit cockpit at the touch of a button. "He must be hiding somewhere," he muttered to himself.

"Probability that target ship is concealing itself within an asteroid: eighty-seven point three five two percent," the computer added.

Leaning back in his seat, Montross crossed his arms over his barrel chest and ordered, "Determine his most likely hiding place and plot a course there."

###

Buruk was in the main corridor of deck two, his armor sealed against the vacuum within, welding durasteel plates over the ragged gashes that ran lengthwise in the bulkhead where the atmosphere had escaped. His T-shaped visor polarized automatically, protecting his eyes from the blinding flash of the laser welder as it soundlessly sealed the hull breach. He knew Lynli would do everything she could but he needed the _Bes'uliik_ space-worthy fast; there was no telling how long it would be before Montross found them.

Finishing the first breach, he pounded a gloved fist experimentally against the plate and muttered to himself, "What it's worth…" Turning carefully in the weightless corridor, he hefted the welder and another plate, and floated forward to the next hole. His breath seemed deafening within his helmet in the depressurized compartment.

He barely noticed the vibration thrumming through the hull. It began softly at first; steadily growing closer, more intense, until the whole ship shuddered and Buruk had to brace himself to keep from flying down the hallway. _Blast, Montross must be carpet bombing the asteroid_, he thought, hanging onto a support strut as if his life depended on it. The shock waves became violent; the Doomtreader must have been passing directly overhead, delivering its deadly payload. _Must be thermal dets or proton bombs he's dropping. Going to try and spook us out._

###

Lynli had been busting her knuckles for an hour trying to return some semblance of life to the shield generator. She'd rewired so many components that the engine room resembled a spider's web, making it difficult to move about. She wouldn't know if it had worked until they powered the ship up and with that attacking ship probably still hanging around that would be dangerous. Thunder rumbled far off in the distance.

Through the open door she heard Riscan's voice feebly say, "It can't be raining… there's not a cloud in the sky…"

She looked up from her work and blinked. He was right; it couldn't have been thunder she'd just heard. The sound came again, closer this time, and she could feel the ship vibrating. Then realization struck her. "He's dropping bombs on us!" she gasped. The sky seemed to open up, explosions rocking the ship as if it were a toy. Thunder clap after thunder clap detonated overhead, rattling her teeth within her skull as she tried to brace herself against the impacts. Even over the din she could still here the sound of rocks tumbling down from the cave ceiling onto the ship, clanging like gongs as the maelstrom continued.

Slowly, agonizingly, the bombing receded into the distance until once again all was quiet. Lynli went to her room, a cell she'd converted into living space, and retrieved her ear bud comlink. Keying it, she snapped, "I thought you said the Guild had rules against killing other bounty hunters."

After a short pause, Buruk replied, "Montross doesn't play by anybody's rules."

"Wonderful. If he doesn't find us, it'll be because this whole cave came down on our heads."

"It's possible," he conceded, then cut the transmission.

Stepping out into the corridor, she leaned against the bulkhead and sank down to a sitting position, tucking her knees up under her chin. She didn't want to die down here, in a cave, lost in the middle of deep space, cowering like an animal in the dark. She'd cowered most of her life. These were probably their final moments and that heartless mercenary up there probably wouldn't even take the time to try and comfort her.

"Hello?" Riscan called weakly from his cell. "Is someone other than myself still alive on this ship?"

Lynli got up shakily and sat down in front of his cell. "What do you want?" she asked.

He was lying on his cot, hands resting behind his head and one ankle propped up on his raised knee. "Just thought you might want to talk, darling. There's something mighty dreadful going on outside it seems, with all the sharp twisting and shaking this ship's been doing recently."

"We were attacked by another bounty hunter," she told him. "It seems you're a popular man, Ganhuff Riscan."

"Well, I have taken pride in considering myself rather desirable in the past," he admitted. "But of course those were different times."

"For the life of me, I can't figure out how someone like you ends up wanted for mass murder."

"Maybe you just don't understand the criminal mind," he offered flatly.

She perched her chin on her fist. "Maybe you're just not the type that does something like that, spice addict or not."

He sat up, then, and swung his legs off the bed. He was shaking uncontrollably now, clearly feeling the effects of withdrawal. He slid down to the floor and squatted in front of the bars, looking at her as if she was a priest and he sat in some kind of morbid confessional. "Twenty three counts of manslaughter," he corrected her, a distant look in his bloodshot hazel eyes. The dark circles had disappeared with the forced sleep he'd gone through, but his skin was clammy; his brow glistened with sweat, making his brown curls stick to his scalp.

"Forgive me if I sound arrogant, but I was once considered by my peers to be rather brilliant. I was the top trauma surgeon at Galactic General Hospital, consulted for two other facilities, and contributed regularly to the Core World Medical Journal. It was a lot of responsibility for one man to handle."

As he spoke, Lynli listened hard, trying to determine any hint that he was lying. To her amazement, she couldn't; he was totally sincere.

"It started with ryll kor; it's a medicinal drug, so it was readily available to me in the hospital's stores. My nerves were a cheap blanket, quickly fraying before my very eyes; I needed something to take the edge off before I simply collapsed under all that pressure. Eventually I was hooked."

He paused and his eyes darted skyward as the rumbling began to return, coming ever closer until they were shaking wildly, tumbling about, holding onto the cell bars for dear life as the bombs fell, breaking more of the cave ceiling free. Then, just as quickly as it had come, it passed again, fading off into the distance. They stared at the ceiling for several heartbeats until Lynli looked back at the doctor and asked, "What happened?"

"Were I betting man," he replied absently, "and by all accounts I am indeed, I'd say someone were intent on our destruction…"

Lynli frowned. "I meant what happened to you," she clarified.

"Well, after about a thirty six hour stint in the OR, I went and got myself a dose of ryll kor. An hour later I was recalled from my apartment. There had been a nasty speeder accident; several DOAs and a number of serious injuries. Twenty three people I worked on that evening died… Not from the accident… but because I prescribed the wrong dosage of painkiller. I was stripped of my license and charged with twenty three counts of manslaughter. I didn't want to go through the shame of a trial so I ran.

"I couldn't afford to buy ryll kor; it was far too valuable and I'd lost access to my finances, so I turned to gambling and glitterstim, which was considerably cheaper. I went wherever I could find both in great enough supply, where I could hopefully avoid whatever Judicials or bounty hunters the Republic set on me." The corner of his mouth turned up in a self-deprecating smile. "Clearly I was mistaken."

"That's awful Riscan," Lynli whispered, gripping the bars of his cell as she peered in at him.

"Please darling, there's no need to be so formal under such circumstances," he smiled warmly at her, placing a hand gently over hers. "Just call my Ganhuff."

Before she could respond, Buruk's voice piped in her ear, "Lynli, I've sealed the breach; you can start pumping atmo back onto deck two."

"Aye-aye, cap'n," she sighed, pulling away from his warm touch and heading back to the engine room.

###

Buruk returned to the cockpit while deck two pressurized. Tossing his helmet aside, he began doffing his armor; the temperature had risen considerably so he stripped down to his shorts, tossing aside his sweaty jumpsuit. "Lynli, what's going on with climate control?" he asked over the shipboard comm as he wiped his glistening forehead.

After a minute or two she responded, "Engines are leaking coolant. I can stop the leak but it'll just slow the heat buildup."

"Just do it," he ordered, kneeling down on the deck and unfastening a panel from the side of the control board. An acrid smell wafted out and, peering inside, he discovered most of the wire bundles were blackened, completely fried. A quick check showed most had lost continuity and Buruk resigned himself to several hours lying on his back, halfway inside the tiny crevice, cursing silently as he tried to rewire the damaged components.

Shabla aruetyc _Montross_, he thought, splicing cables together, a pair of cutters gripped precariously in one slick hand and a glowrod strapped to his head. Kyr'adyc, n'jate, dar'manda, mir'osik… Ni or'parguuri kaysh! Ke'ramaanar!

The rumbling explosions began to build again, coming steadily closer as he worked. "_Haar'chak_," he muttered, bracing himself for the tremors to come. Soon the _Bes'uliik_ was again quaking violently, the bombs falling overhead shaking the asteroid like the fist of an angry god. More debris showered the hull, clanging down along the durasteel armor.

Something flashed and Buruk was showered with sparks, white hot little embers dancing across his bare skin, making him wince and grit his teeth against the pain. Then the cockpit went black before the glowlamps were replaced with blood-red emergency lighting. "Osik" he snarled. _If this keeps up we're going to end up buried or broken beyond repair._

Once again the thunderous explosions receded into the distance, leaving only the sound of clattering rubble and a ringing in Buruk's ears as he returned to his rewiring, making sure nothing else was damaged in the last pass. _Tenacious_ chakaar_, that Montross_, he thought absently, sweat pouring down his face.

Scooting out of the control board, he keyed his comlink and asked, "Lynli, is the hyperdrive patched up?"

"Fifty-fifty shot of it working or blowing sky high," she replied through clenched teeth.

"We need to get out of here while we still can and put space between us and that _dar'manda Siit'ad_ out there; let me know when it's sixty-forty." He thought he heard her giggle over the channel, then added, "If anyone can get this baby crawling, it's you."

###

Hours had gone by. Montross slammed a fist against the cockpit's display console, shaking with undirected rage. He'd dropped so much ordnance on that asteroid, there wasn't a centimeter of its craggy surface left uncratered. Still, Kelborn refused to be flushed out. Replacing all those bombs, even if he got the bounty on Riscan, Montross wouldn't break even. He didn't even care about the credits anymore; he'd satisfy his anger on Riscan, the Death Watch Brat, and anyone else aboard if he found them.

"Probability that ship has been destroyed: eighty seven point two three two percent," piped the cool female voice of the _Hell's Anvil_.

"You win this time, Kelborn," Montross muttered grudgingly, vectoring away from the asteroid he'd been pummeling and headed out of the field. "Save a place for me in Hell."

###

"That's it, go!" Lynli called through the comm.

Flipping switches, Buruk replied, "Hang on to something _ad'ike_, it's about to get rough!" The engines sputtered to life, thrumming through the hull with soothing vibrations. _My baby's still alive_, he thought with a relieved sigh.

Kicking on the repulserlifts, he eased her back out of the cave and cut in the main drive, shooting out of the canyon at top speed into the asteroid field. Dodging left and right between the enormous rocks, he spotted Montross' Doomtreader waiting just outside. Shab_, should've waited longer._ Seconds later he was through the field and soared over the other ship's head, running for the navicomputer's preloaded coordinates.

Montross brought his ship around and opened fire, emerald daggers of energy lancing after them, nipping at their heels. Buruk slewed the ship to port, a burst of cannon fire barely grazing the hull. _Come on, come on…_ he urged the ship as he watched the coordinates approach, painfully slow. The _Bes'uliik_ shuddered as they took a hit, then another, the engines groaning as they labored to keep functioning.

At last they were in place. Keying the comm, Buruk called, "I don't have time to kill you Montross, but I'm sure somebody will!" With that, he punched the hyperdrive, the stars elongated then collapsed, and with a flicker of pseudomotion, they were away.

Hours later, they arrived in the nearest inhabited system.

The gas giant Bespin spun against the backdrop of stars like a jewel, its tibanna clouds swirling serenely. The _Bes'uliik_ was in a bad way, limping and sputtering all the way down to Cloud City, until its engines finally died on the landing pad. Buruk could hear the pops and ticks from the cockpit as they cooled in the high altitude as he cycled the airlock open, then sat back in his seat and laid a warm, sweaty hand on the control panel, as if comforting a dying pet. _There, there,_ he thought numbly.


	11. Bespin Requiem

Buruk paced up and down the corridor outside the engine room where Lynli, his Twi'lek partner, was hard at work trying to bring the _Bes'uliik_ back to life. Judging by the long strings of Ryl and Huttese curses echoing down the hall, she was fighting a losing battle. They'd been stuck in port for two days and it was starting to look like nothing short of a full-blown dry-dock facility would resurrect their ship.

They'd had a run-in with an old acquaintance of Buruk's, a _dar'manda_ named Montross who'd been after the same bounty head they now carried aboard the wounded _Bes'uliik_. They'd barely escaped with their lives and had been forced to land in Cloud City to make repairs. The damage, however, seemed to be too extensive, even for Lynli's adept hands.

Riscan, the disgraced glitbiting doctor in the cell down the hall, had lost all semblance of self-control as he went through withdrawal, leaving him a paranoid, gibbering mess who shivered constantly and rocked himself back and forth. "Please," he whimpered from his cell, "I need some spice… just a little?" His voice abruptly rose to shout and he cried, "Can't you see I'm dying? I'm no good to you dead!"

He had a point.

A sudden grinding noise from the engine room captured Buruk's attention, snapping him out of his reverie. A loud thump followed and Lynli appeared in the portal through a plume of thick smoke, coughing into a fist and clutching a hydrospanner. "Forget it," she rasped, clearing her throat. "It's all totally FUBAR, Buruk."

The Mandalorian crossed his arms over his armored chest. "What do you mean, FUBAR?"

"I mean there's no way I can fix it," she stated. "Everything's damaged way beyond repair. It'd take me months to rip all the guts out of her and thousands of credits to replace it all. The _Bes'uliik_'s dead."

Buruk turned and punched the bulkhead. "_Haar'chak_!" he cursed. The _Bes'uliik_, gone. He couldn't believe it. The ship was his pride and joy, a MandalMotors _Pursuer_-class enforcement ship, one of the few links to his people he had left. Now she was a dead hulk, irreparable, suitable only for scrap. Without her he'd have no way to find Kex or the remaining Jedi, no way to regain his honor and avenge the poor souls of Galidraan. He punched the bulkhead again, as if trying to beat a dying man's heart back into rhythm.

He rested his forehead tenderly on the cool durasteel and closed his eyes. Lynli stepped up cautiously behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder, her voice quiet and gentle. "We can find a new ship…"

"Fine, we'd better get going," he declared, shrugging off her hand and turning to the airlock. His face could have been carved from stone. As he marched down the ramp, he ignored the hurt look on his partner's face.

They had landed in Port Town, an infamous neighborhood that covered levels 121 through 160 of the great floating city. Smugglers, mercenaries, and outlaws all called it home, preferring the anonymity it offered as opposed to the glittering luxury hotels and casinos of the upper levels. This was the best place to look for a new ship.

As they traversed the dingy lower city, Lynli tried to engage Buruk in conversation. "I've always wanted to come to Cloud City," she said innocently. "I always heard stories about how beautiful it was here, with all the parks and resorts…"

Buruk just grunted.

"When we get this business taken care of, we should head to the upper city," she pressed on, undeterred. "We could both use a vacation, after the scare we just went through. Some rest and relaxation, just the two of us." She looked at him appealingly.

Still, he didn't answer.

"I know what would make you feel better," she continued, taking his arm and nuzzling up against him. "Buying me a slinky dress. Can I have some money for a slinky dress?"

"We can't even afford a new ship," he growled, pulling away and coming to a halt. "What's in your head, talking about vacations and new dresses?"

She frowned up at him, meeting his glare with one of her own. "I'm trying to keep a positive attitude," she snapped. "You're the one who insists on being so unhappy all the time."

"What do I have to be happy about?" he demanded. "My ship's a wreck, people are trying to kill me for the bounty head I'm carrying, there's a hit out on me, and my hopes for redemption are quickly going down the incinerator."

"You've still got me," she pointed out. "Even after your little episode with the Jedi, I've stuck by you, and it's a damn good thing I have, otherwise you'd be dead."

Buruk couldn't argue against that, no matter how sorely he wanted. His right eye twitched in frustration and he looked away, mouth shut tight as he continued on. Lynli followed a short distance behind him.

A flash of something red at the edge of his vision a short distance away caught his attention. Throwing a surreptitious glance in that direction, he spotted four armed sentients, three humans, and a Twi'lek, lounging in the entrance to a cantina; all four of them wore familiar red leather leggings. Buruk motioned for Lynli to stop, then turned his head so she could see his lips as he silently mouthed, "Redlegs." She nodded and crossed to the other side of the thoroughfare, paralleling his course around them.

The four men were just standing in the doorway, laughing amongst themselves, one of them flamboyantly twirling a vibroblade. None of them looked in Buruk's direction as he passed and the Mandalorian let out a relieved breath before someone shouted, "Chaos take me! It's Buruk Kelborn!"

Buruk's eyes went wide and his head snapped in the direction of the speaker. His heart sank as he recognized the sharp-eyed, hatchet-faced human with cold blue eyes and blonde hair; Morran Risant, hunt saboteur and occasional nemesis to Buruk's bounty hunting career. The last time they'd met face to face, Buruk had destroyed his ship and abandoned him aboard his asteroid hideout in the Iderud Badlands. Seemed he was still holding a grudge.

The four Redlegs levered themselves out of the doorway they'd been lounging in, slowly approaching the armored Mandalorian. Buruk turned to face them, leveling a neutral stare their way as a small crowd of onlookers gathered, Lynli among them. For several tense seconds they just stared at one another, sizing each other up. The Redlegs had lined themselves abreast of each other; from left to right, standing human, human, Twi'lek, human.

Into the silence, Buruk demanded, "Well, are you going to pull those blasters or tap-dance?"

As they went for their guns, Buruk had his own pistols drawn in the blink of an eye, first shooting the Twi'lek, then the two humans on either side of him, throwing them off their feet. The fourth human toppled over face first as a blaster bolt from the audience caught him in the back. Buruk glanced over to see Lynli return her weapon to its holster.

As the crowd dispersed, Buruk turned to Risant, whose eyes widened with fright before he ran off as fast as he could. Ignoring him, Buruk stepped up to his partner and said, "Nice shooting."

"How'd you know who to shoot first?" she asked curiously.

"Simple," he answered nonchalantly. "The man on the left had scared eyes; he wasn't in any hurry to draw. The one on the right had a flap holster, so he wasn't going to be first no matter how much he wanted. The Twi'lek, well, he had crazy eyes and was itching for a fight."

"Right…" Lynli replied. "What about the human on the far left?"

"Never paid him any mind…" he answered with a casual smile. "You were there."

Lynli crossed her arms over her chest and gave him an annoyed look. "I could have missed," she countered.

"Well, the important thing is, you didn't." Turning serious, he said, "I think you should head back to the ship and make sure our cargo is safe; who knows how many Redlegs are crawling around here. I'll keep looking for a good ship dealer I can haggle with."

"Fine," she sighed disinterestedly, spinning on her heel and strolling away, swaying her hips. "I'll go baby-sit if you don't want me around." Neither of them noticed the Rodian peel away from the shadows of an alley and follow in her wake.

###

Tears streamed down Ganhuff's cheeks as he stared at the ceiling with dead eyes. He lay on his back on the cold durasteel floor of his cell, quivering in agony, his mouth hanging open in a silent cry of anguish. His throat was so dry it felt like sandpaper each time he swallowed. His lungs burned and his muscles ached. He was burning up; sweat poured down his face, his skin crawled and his heart raced, hammering against his breastbone with each deafening beat. How could they put him through this hell?

_Withdrawal_, he thought absently. _Classic symptoms of delirium tremens… fever, tachycardia, tremors, tactile hallucinations, paranoia…_ His medical training allowed him to take it all in objectively, seeing his symptoms through the crystal clear eyes of academia. That didn't help the pain any, though.

_Standard treatment is conergin to keep the patient sedated… perhaps a low-level antipsychotic supplement in my case._

He thought he heard something hissing down the corridor. _Snakes!_ His thoughts screamed, then what Ganhuff thought of as his "doctor's mind" took over once again. _Oh good, I can add auditory hallucinations to the list now._

The sound of footsteps proved him wrong, however, as the violet-skinned Twi'lek woman, Lynli, slumped against the wall outside his cell. She must have come in through the airlock, which would explain the hissing he'd heard. She looked annoyed.

Ganhuff felt a little hope swell in him at the sight of her. Surely she would take pity on him in his wretched state. "Please miss," he begged weakly, "could you please give me a little spice to help the pain?" His throat screamed with each word but he pressed on when she looked up at him. "Just a little? I'm not sure how much longer I can hold out."

She looked in at him. He hoped she would see how bad he was doing, would be convinced of his need. Sighing, she stood and said, "Fine. At lease you'll appreciate it when I try to help you."

His hopes soared. "Oh bless your heart, dear!" he called after her as she stepped out of sight. _Providence bless that woman,_ he thought gratefully.

Somewhere down the corridor, a scuffle ensued. He heard Lynli cry out in surprise and a high-pitched Rodian voice say "You stay quiet, girl. We wait for Kelborn come back to ship, I give him big surprise."

_Oh no_, Ganhuff thought as he felt his hopes melting once again. _Who's out there?_

###

Buruk hurried back to the _Bes'uliik_, unable to believe his luck. Not only had he found a ship he could afford, but had actually been able to talk the seller down substantially. _Never underestimate the haggling power of a full set of _beskar'gam, he thought. No more Redlegs had crawled out of the woodwork either, which lent another level of optimism to his outlook. All they had to do was transfer Riscan and their belongings over to their new vessel and they'd have sky under their feet by local nightfall.

The exit hatch hissed open once he entered the code in the keypad, lifting up into the ceiling. His ruined ship rested on a wide, circular platform at the end of a long catwalk overlooking the city's central spire, haloed against the waxing sunlight of dawn painting the clouds a brilliant gold.

A draft blew his cloak around his shoulders, sending a chill up Buruk's spine as he marched along the catwalk and he suddenly got a very bad feeling. Placing a hand on the butt of a blaster, he slowed his pace as he approached the ship, eying every scratch, dent, and scorch mark on the hull for anything out of the ordinary. Abruptly, the airlock cycled open and Lynli appeared in the opening, a mechanical arm wrapped tight around her neck, pinching her lekku.

Buruk stopped dead in his tracks. She looked relatively unharmed, though uncomfortable. A greasy Rodian stepped into view, using the Twi'lek as a living shield, pressing a blaster into her side with his sucker-tipped, flesh-and-blood hand. "Remember me?" he warbled in thickly accented Basic.

Siit'ad, Buruk thought, dumbfounded, though he made sure to keep his expression completely neutral. "Koovo," he said easily. "Long time no see." Eight-Second Koovo had been a gunrunner on Zonju V that tried to have Buruk quietly taken care of during a quick draw contest almost a year ago. Buruk had subsequently destroyed his arms warehouse and shot him down to win the tournament's prize money.

"Too long, Kelborn," Koovo replied, snout turning up in an approximation of a human sneer. "You make me lose arm in Zoronhed. But I have long time to learn how shoot with left."

_This doesn't seem to be my day for grudge holders_, Buruk thought. "You're here to settle the score? Is that it?"

"No, I here for big bounty on ship," Koovo beamed, multi-faceted eyes glittering. "Killing you just bonus." He prodded Lynli with the barrel of his blaster. "Drop guns or she have bad day."

Buruk glanced between Koovo and Lynli, looking her straight in the eyes. She gave only the slightest nod but her golden gaze conveyed the sum of her thoughts. Buruk drew his blaster in a flash and pulled the trigger. The Rodian's head snapped back, catching the energy bolt full in the face as he toppled over backward. Unfortunately, in his death throes, his sucker-tipped finger clamped down on the trigger, discharging his weapon into Lynli's side. She let out a yelp and her legs crumpled beneath her, bringing her crashing down to the duracrete atop Koovo.

"Lynli!" Buruk cried, holstering his blaster and rushing to her side. Osik_, no!_ Yanking off his cloak, he bunched up the worn and frayed garment and tucked it under her head. Then, tearing open her ship's coverall, he got his first good look at the gaping wound in her abdomen, heart sinking at the sight of the ragged hole. Blood oozed onto the duracrete platform. "That's nothing," he insisted, looking Lynli in the eyes. "I've seen plenty worse."

"That didn't go how I planned it," she said absently, eyes losing focus, drooping slightly.

Buruk took her face in his hands, made her look at him. "No, stay with me! Stay with me!"

"I don't feel too good, Buruk." There was no time to lose. Lifting her off the ground, he carried her up the boarding ramp to the _Bes'uliik_. "Where are we going?"

"A little bacta and then we'll go find you that dress you wanted," he assured her. Each jostling step elicited a cry of agony.

"What happened?" Riscan demanded from his cell, standing on his own two feet for the first time in days. Adrenaline must have gotten him going again; he was actually gripping the prison bars as if he might actually tear himself free in spite of his frail and sickly appearance.

"Lynli's been shot!" Buruk called back to him, laying her on the bed in her quarters. She'd converted one of the cells on deck three into her own personal living space since she'd become a permanent resident. To his partner, he spoke gently. "I'm going to be right back; I've just got to get the first aid kit from storage on deck two."

"Okie-dokie," she replied, staring up through the ceiling, clutching her stomach as tears ran from her eyes.

As Buruk headed for the lifttube, Riscan declared, "I can help her!" Buruk ignored him, returning with the first aid kit. The glit-biter tried again. "I said I can help her! I'm a doctor!"

Buruk shut out the prisoner's words as he gave Lynli a painkiller and applied a bacta patch to her stomach. "Afraid I made a mess of your bed sheets," he whispered to her gently, glancing at the blood stain slowly spreading across the fabric. "You can yell at me later, though, because you're going to be fine."

As he turned to go, she replied weakly, "I trust you." That stung Buruk's heart and he walked out.

Going to Riscan's cell, he looked the prisoner straight in the eye, his expression deadly serious. "You said you can help her?"

"I surely can," Riscan replied. "You're a soldier, you know as well as I do that time's of the essence here. Give me your datapad."

Buruk frowned and handed it over. Riscan began scribbling with the stylus, writing as fast and as clearly as he could. Handing it back, Buruk found he had made a short list of drugs and equipment that would wipe out their finances completely. "I need everything on that, exactly as I stated it," Riscan explained. "No exceptions, no substitutions."

"The first thing on this list is glitterstim, you rotten _chakaar_," Buruk growled, grabbing Riscan by the collar.

"I need to perform surgery," Riscan insisted. "To do that, I need to be steady." He raised his hands into the Mandalorian's view so that he could see the uncontrollable tremors coursing through his body. "One slip of the scalpel and it could all be over for her."

"Fine," Buruk growled. "But you'd better pray she pulls through."

As he turned to leave the ship, he heard the doctor lean heavily against his cell door and whisper, "I always did."

###

It had taken the Mandalorian, Buruk, only half an hour but he'd managed to locate every item on the list. Together they set up in the galley, the only place on the ship with a table big enough for Lynli and room for the instruments Ganhuff needed. Scrubbed and adorned in an apron, the doctor's mind took over. "Strip off her coverall and cleanse the wound," he ordered, switching on the antisepsis field generator, effectively sterilizing the room of all microscopic organisms.

As Buruk went to work cleaning the area around Lynli's wound, Ganhuff removed the small black vial from his pocket. Glitterstim was a photoactive crystal strand that required total darkness to be mined and processed. The highly addictive drug gave the user a heightened mental state and a pleasurable telepathic boost; some people used it for interrogations, lovers sometimes used it to enhance their experience. Taking a deep breath, Ganhuff unscrewed the lid on the vial and removed the thin string of blue crystals, exposing them to the light. They flashed brilliantly, burning with an azure glow before the doctor popped the strand into his mouth and swallowed.

Immediately he was swept away on a wave of euphoria, his body jittering at the sudden reintroduction of pure pleasure. The pain went away and his trembling at long last stopped. Ganhuff took a deep breath, let it out slowly and turned to his patient lying helpless on the table. Buruk eyed him warily, no doubt noticing the slight tinge of blue-within-blue his eyes had taken. Donning his gloves, Ganhuff said, "Anesthesia; begin the conergin drip."

Buruk pulled his gaze away from the doctor and turned to the IV bag hanging above Lynli, opening the valve and allowing the tranquilizing agent to flow into her veins. She was fully unconscious in seconds and Ganhuff took on the procedure for inserting the endotracheal tube for placing her on mechanical ventilation.

Taking up his scalpel, the doctor made his first incision, clamping down blood vessels as he searched out the location where the most damage had been done. "Lot of bleeding," he muttered to himself. "Can I get some suction over here?" Buruk promptly appeared with the hose, draining away the overflow to allow Ganhuff to see what he was doing. "That's better, thank you."

The extent of the damage seemed to be a punctured liver and kidney, several opened and partially cauterized blood vessels, and third degree burns around the wound. It took hours to suture everything together, one thing at a time. Next, came debridement of the charred, necrotic skin at the sight of the blaster burn, followed by grafts of synthflesh. Throughout the whole procedure, Ganhuff picked up constant empathic waves of fear and anxiety emanating from his Mandalorian assistant. It could have been the simple stress of performing a surgical procedure that had eventually driven Ganhuff to spice addiction, but the doctor suspected it had more to do with the patient laying helpless under his knife.

Finally, Ganhuff sutured his original incision closed and said wearily, "That's it; now we wait."

He watched impassively as Buruk stepped up beside Lynli and squeezed her still hand. "_Ni olar, Lyn'ika_," he whispered in a language the doctor was unfamiliar with, then walked out of the room. He looked more haggard than Ganhuff had after his first twenty-four hour stint in the operating room at Galactic General, all those years ago.

From the corridor, Buruk called, "Riscan! I want to talk to you!"

Swallowing past a lump that had suddenly developed in his throat, Ganhuff stripped off his gloves and stepped out after him, pulling his mask down. "Yes?"

The Mandalorian leaned casually against the bulkhead, arms crossed over his chest. "Thanks."

The doctor was taken aback by the sincerity behind the expression of gratitude. "My pleasure," he replied. "I'm sure she'll pull through—"

"Bounty hunting's a dangerous occupation," Buruk interrupted. "You may have noticed that Lynli and I aren't exactly medically trained."

Where was he going with this? This man was so hard to read, it was downright frustrating.

"We find us a new ship, we'll need a medic. We've both got death marks and you're wanted by the Republic; only safe place for any of us is on the run." Buruk stared daggers at him. "You supply your own spice and stay out of my head when you're doped up on it and I won't turn you in to the law. Deal?"

Ganhuff's mouth gaped open, at a loss for words. At last he found his voice. "Am I correct to assume this deal is entirely dependent on her survival?"

"That's right," Buruk answered. "If she doesn't make it, you won't live long enough to have your bounty collected."


	12. Tales From Cloud City

Paint it Black – Buruk's Tale

The EKG beeped steadily into the heavy silence. She was breathing on her own again. That was something to be optimistic about.

Optimism. Now there was a strange mood. Buruk Kelborn had been living the past year from planet to planet with barely a hint of that feeling, especially now that his partner lay unconscious on the galley table with a mended blaster burn in her stomach. She'd wake up with a nasty scar, one to rival his own, that was certain. She'd be angry about that but it could be erased by the doctor later. Riscan was off doing whatever the glit-biter did.

Buruk would never live it down if she ever found out how he was reacting to her condition; she'd tease him and make him squirm to satisfy her own sick humor because he'd worried over her. Well to hell with his pride; she was his partner and that was all the reason he needed to care about her. He hadn't left her side for more than five minutes since the surgery had been completed, holding her hand and willing her to wake up.

_I won't lose you too, Lynli_, he thought, eyes tracking over her delicate violet features. She looked so serene.

A year ago Buruk had lost everything he loved. On the snowy world of Galidraan, the Jedi had taken it all away from him; his friends, his family, his people. His identity. He felt cut adrift, as though he had no place he was welcome, no home. They'd scarred him and left him on the edge of death, with only his Mandalorian armor and principles to define who he was. Any other sentient would have become a broken shell of a man, but not Buruk. Galidraan had reinvigorated him. As a Mandalorian, he'd spent his life fighting for other people's causes. Now he burned with an inner drive all his own. Any _Mando'ad_ would know by the sand-gold armor he wore what his life's mission was.

Buruk sought revenge on the Jedi that had wiped out his people and the traitor, Goran Kex, who had allowed it. Nothing else would satisfy his honor.

Lynli made a frightened noise in her sleep and Buruk squeezed her hand. She deserved better than how he treated her, but his mission demanded he forgo outside distractions. He couldn't let himself be sidetracked, for his people's sake. They deserved justice.

Buruk sighed, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling. Justice, a sacred Mandalorian principle signified by the color black, demanded a person's detachment from the task at hand. He wished he could be so noble, but his desire was something fueled by emotion, his anger and hatred. Those spoon-bending monks would call it the Dark Side. _Let them think what they want_, he thought bitterly; the self-righteous Jedi were all dead inside, they didn't feel the way normal people did. Revenge was something you had to take personally. It was visceral, dirty, and burned like a star. That was why the Mandalorians symbolized it with the color gold.

Buruk's armor would never be worthy of the color black. Looking back at Lynli, he thought, _You know about revenge too, don't you?_

###

Unbound – Lynli's Tale

Lynli huddled in the dark pantry with her knees tucked up beneath her chin. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she squeezed her eyes shut tight. Outside she could hear someone passing through the kitchen and she clamped down on her mouth, praying not to be discovered. Her master would beat her severely if she were found. She shuddered in pain at the thought of the wretched man who had just taken advantage of her.

He had been drunk when it happened. Lynli had brought him another flagon of liquor, bowing subserviently as he demanded she always do, and he'd commanded her to dance for him. Setting the serving platter aside, she began to twirl and kick as she'd been trained, leaping gracefully through the air. Enticed by her nubile display, her master rose from his seat and took hold of her arm, his fingers digging roughly into her violet flesh, and led her away to his bedchamber despite her loud protests.

The pain had been unbearable and there was so much blood; she felt so ashamed staggering through the corridors in a daze as he snored loudly into the night. She'd made her way to the kitchen where the cook had allowed her to clean up but not even that was a true act of kindness; she'd seen the way he looked at her, the way nearly every man in her master's employ looked at her, and now she knew what he really sought. She curled up in the back of the pantry so no one would see her cry. She learned that day that her beauty, as was often the case on the Outer Rim, was a curse. It was a harsh lesson to learn at fourteen.

The abuse continued but Lynli shut it all out after that first time. Eventually her master grew tired of her and she was sold to another and the cycle of pain and torment continued, and eventually she was sold again and again. She danced and served them all. They enjoyed hurting her, seeing her tears and her bruised flesh. They beat her, whipped her, and violated her, and always they paid to have the marks removed afterward. But not all scars faded so easily.

By the time she was sold to her fifth master, a slobbering Hutt Vigo, Lynli could bear the abuse no longer. Imprisoned within Zordo Desilijic Fadj's Nar Shaddaa estate's slave quarters, she plotted her escape.

Sitting atop a packing crate full of old motivators in the estate's motor pool, she watched the Quarren Terssek repair an engine pod on a Skipray Blastboat, swinging her bare legs back and forth.

"So, you wanna learn how to fix starships," Terssek grunted, cranking down on a hydrospanner with some effort.

"That's right," Lynli replied guilelessly. "It's useful to know how things work."

"Marketable skill or not, a slave can't just apply for a new job," the squid-head pointed out, wiping his three-fingered hands on a greasy rag as he stood up and faced her. "I think you've got something else up your sleeve little girl."

Lynli made herself blush as he crossed thick arms across a burly orange chest. "But Terssek, I'm not wearing any sleeves," she replied playfully. Indeed, she sported yet another in a long line of revealing dancer's outfits; whoever designed them was sure saving credits on fabric, that was for sure.

"You could use what I teach you to break out of the slave quarters and escape," Terssek said matter-of-factly. "I should tell His Exaltedness about this." He placed a sarcastic edge on the epithet.

Pursing her lips, Lynli cooed, "But if you went and did a thing like that, Lord Zordo would have me executed. You wouldn't want that, after we've gotten so well acquainted." She reached behind her back and unhooked the clasp on her dancer's top, letting the straps slide down her shoulders, smiling invitingly. "I'd do anything…"

Terssek's face tentacles spread, bearing a pair of needle-sharp fangs in an approximation of a near-human grin. His beady blue eyes darted from side to side and he approached her slowly, flicking his thin pink tongue in and out of his mouth. "In here," he said in a low voice, grasping her wrist and leading her into the Blastboat's cockpit.

_Men_, Lynli thought disdainfully. _Always after the same thing without any thought._

Afterward, Terssek agreed to teach Lynli everything he knew, on the condition that Lynli continued to service him as he wished. Over the next several weeks, the young slave learned quickly and the Quarren mechanic admitted she was something of a prodigy. Soon she was working with him in the maintenance bay simply because he actually needed her help.

One night she returned to her cell in the slave quarters after having been assaulted by the Hutt himself. As the dingy cold water of the shower rained down on her, she curled up into a fetal ball and shut everything out. Her golden eyes stared dully at the grimy tiled wall and she shivered in the chilly air of the chamber.

At last, in a detached state, she cleaned herself up and turned off the water's flow. Drying herself, she went to her sleeping mat and tore open the unraveling seam where she'd hidden the set of tools she'd stolen from Terssek's garage. Once she'd dressed, Lynli went to the door and opened a panel on the wall, going to work on the wires. In minutes she had her cell unlocked and the door hissed open.

She slipped into the dimly lit corridor, bare feet padding silently on the duracrete floor, and pressed herself against the wall. Peering around the corner, she saw no guards patrolling and made for the heavy blast doors that sealed the slave quarters off from the rest of the estate. Prying open another panel, a bead of sweat ran down her face as she spliced more cables together. Down the hall she could hear footsteps approaching before the blast doors slid apart just enough for her to squeeze her lithe frame through. Step one of her plan was complete.

Next she made her way to the kitchen; she'd stashed a set of more practical clothing there over the weeks, ferreting each article away in boxes and cupboards the cook never opened, as evidenced by the thick coating of dust on each of them. Rounding a corner, she froze in her tracks; a Weequay stood in her path, his back to her, clutching a blaster rifle in his leathery brown hands. Cautiously, Lynli backed away from the guard, creeping back the way she'd come. _That was close_, she sighed inwardly, taking a different path to the kitchen.

Now that she was less conspicuously dressed, she made her way to the armory, the most dangerous part of her journey. The final phase of her plan depended on her acquiring a weapon, and no one in their right mind traveled around Nar Shaddaa's streets unarmed.

As she expected, the armory was heavily guarded. Luckily for her, it was just a contingent of Gamorreans. Standing up straight and throwing her shoulders back, Lynli sauntered confidently out into the hall toward them. _Just act like you belong somewhere and everybody assumes that you do_, she thought with self-satisfaction.

"Hey! Who you?" one of the pig-like guards grunted in barely recognizable Basic as she approached. "What you do here?" He and one of his fellows crossed their vibro-axes in front of her face, barring her path.

Glaring daggers at the stocky Gamorrean, she declared, "I work here, you idiot! Let me through, I need to check out my weapon to start my shift."

"Me never seen you here before…" the guards' spokesman grunted in confusion as a long string of saliva dribbled from his tusked mouth.

"Funny, I've never seen you here either," Lynli replied warningly. "Maybe I should go tell His Excellency there's an intruder in our midst and he's trying to horde the weapons stockpile."

"Ah! No!" the Gamorrean squealed. "No say that! Me no in-tru-der! You pass, you pass!" Parting their axes, the guards waddled out of Lynli's way, even obliging to open the locked door for her.

Inside, Lynli perused the fully stocked weapons lockers, wracking her lekku trying to remember the description the human mercenary she'd slept with had given her about one particular firearm. _Ah, there it is_, she thought, picking up the small, delicate-looking slugthrower. Slapping a loaded magazine into its grip, she stuffed the handgun into her trousers, then strapped a gun belt to her waist and holstered a heavy blaster pistol. Stocking up on spare power packs and sheathing a vibroblade in her boot, she stepped back into the corridor and headed purposefully toward the Hutt's throne room.

She had decided to kill the bloated, pus-filled worm a long time ago. He was a sadist, a vile creature who tortured his servants and executed anyone without a thought. Zordo Desilijic Fadj served the Black Sun syndicate, making billions on the suffering of countless beings across the galaxy, and had personally made Lynli's life a living hell. When it was discovered that she had escaped, he would punish the other slaves severely for her actions; many would die. There was only one way to prevent that: Zordo must be killed.

Tucked into her waistband, Lynli carried a Verpine shatter gun, a slugthrower that functioned like a miniature rail gun. Because it utilized magnetic coils instead of ballistics, it would make no sound when fired but still produce extremely large amounts of kinetic damage. One shot and the Hutt would be dead, and no one would know for several hours.

The door hissed open quietly and she could see the Hutt sprawled on his dais, bulbous eyes closed in slumber. This was it, the moment of truth. Stalking into the throne room, Lynli pulled the shatter gun from her belt and silently chambered a round, the dull click echoing through the vast chamber. Zordo never stirred as she approached, crept around his enormous frame, and placed the barrel in line with his head; he continued to snore, sleeping the untroubled sleep only experienced by the righteous or the truly wicked.

_You have to do this_, Lynli urged herself as the barrel of the gun shook slightly. _He needs to die or he'll kill the others. Remember how he's treated you._ Closing her eyes, she pulled the trigger.

A soft puff of air issued from the weapon and the Hutt's skull exploded, spewing brain matter across the dais, and the floor, and the rich tapestries hanging from the walls. Zordo's body sagged, becoming limp as a rag doll. Lynli opened her eyes and stared for several minutes, frozen in horror at what she had done.

At last she tore her gaze away from the bloody scene. _He deserved worse_, she told herself, returning the shatter gun to her belt and stepping up to the wall behind the dais. Running her thin hand along the smooth surface, she found the hidden panel and opened the Hutt's camouflaged escape tunnel. Making her way through the darkness, nearly bent over double, she eventually came to a hatch with a wheel set in the middle. Straining, she turned the wheel counter-clockwise and the hatch swung open into the upper streets of Nar Shaddaa, letting in blinding sunlight.

Taking a deep breath of the pungent, polluted air, she thought wonderingly, _I'm free…_ For the first time in her twenty-four years, she was free. Gazing across the sprawling city, the light intensified, forcing her to shield her eyes against the glare. Looking to the stars, she saw Y'Toub flare into brilliance, dominating the whole sky, and gradually fade.

As the brightness ebbed and her eyes readjusted, she saw that the night sky of Nar Shaddaa had disappeared, replaced by a slate grey bulkhead ceiling with a bright white glowlamp shining down on her. Something beeped in time with her pulse and when she turned her head she saw Buruk, sound asleep in a chair next to her, arms folded across his slowly rising and falling chest.

As a warm smile spread across her face, Lynli laid her head back down and let him rest.

###

The Gambler – Ganhuff's Tale

Ganhuff found himself sitting in the grand hall of a hotel the likes of which he hadn't set foot in in over a year. A vaulted ceiling adorned with murals depicting the ancient glory of a far-flung civilization stood some thirty meters high, braced with decorative columns and buttresses. Enormous windows offered an expansive three hundred and sixty degree view of the glorious, billowing tibanna clouds drifting about the floating city while repulsor-equipped chandeliers illuminated the chamber. The hotel played host to a high stakes sabacc tournament and the grand hall now housed dozens of tables scattered about, seating hundreds of beings of all species from across the galaxy.

The doctor had left the crippled vessel down below in Port Town, determined to make himself scarce for a while. The Twi'lek girl would be fine; he'd made sure of that first, but her Mandalorian partner was still at her side. Was there something going on between those two? Ganhuff certainly hoped not, she was quite an eye-catcher. Buruk's head would droop slowly until he caught himself and snapped back to attention; he hadn't slept since their trouble in the asteroid field and was pushing himself even harder now that Lynli had been hurt.

"Where are you going?" the mercenary had demanded from his seat in the galley.

"You made it clear we'd best keep moving," Ganhuff had replied evenly, his cultured Coruscanti accent contrasting with Buruk's thick Mandalorian one. "I'm going to get us moving again."

As he stepped into the lifttube he'd heard Buruk call out, "What're you going to do? Get out and push?"

_In a manner of speaking, I did just that_, Ganhuff thought to himself, letting a grin spread across his face as if he hadn't a care in the world while he peered at his cards; the hand was dreadfully poor and he hoped none of the other players would call his bluff. At his table sat a small, bat-like Chadra-Fan, an Ishi Tib, a Mon Calimari, and a stocky, shaggy-furred Elom. All eyes turned to the human and he could feel their expectation roll off them in waves.

"I must say, you gentlemen look like you're about to positively burst," the doctor chided, sipping whiskey from a tin cup he'd stolen from a saloon on Nar Shaddaa.

Through luck, savvy, and the spice's telepathic boost, Ganhuff was up several thousand credits. It still wasn't enough, though. "I'll raise," he said, tossing in another five hundred credit chip; he was stalling for time, hoping the randomizer would change his hand to something better. The Mon Cal threw in his hand disgustedly, stood, and walked away; the doctor could feel his depression, was nearly swept away by it himself, it was so powerful. It wouldn't surprise Ganhuff to hear he'd decided to jump.

The little Chadra-Fan squeaked, rubbing its up-turned, triangle-shaped nose, then pushed in a stack of credits, meeting the human's bet. "Master Tokba wishes to call," translated the RH7-D CardShark droid suspended on repulsors above the table.

Ganhuff swallowed surreptitiously past a lump in his throat as the Ishi Tib turned over the Commander of Sabers, the Three of Flasks, and the Five of Coins. _He's got twenty; that's nigh unbeatable._ The Elom's furry shoulders sagged and he laid out the Evil One, the Ace of Coins, and the Demise card: negative thirteen. Ganhuff displayed his hand, the Idiot, the Eleven of Staves, and the Queen of Air and Darkness, totaled at nine. Luckily he'd won enough hand pots so far to stay alive in the tournament.

Everyone at the table groaned when the Chadra-Fan turned over the Endurance and Moderation cards, totaling negative twenty two, and began raking in the credits, squeaking contentedly. _That was too close_, Ganhuff breathed a sigh of relief. _He almost got a Pure Sabacc and won it all._

Hours went by and Ganhuff won and lost with equal frequency; he was up against some of the highest of the galaxy's high-rollers and the effects of his glitterstim were beginning to wear off. He continued to win enough hand pots to stay alive in the tournament but never enough for what he and the others needed: a ship.

_Have to end this quickly_, he thought as a living dealer, a Bith, riffled the cards and passed them around the table. Ganhuff eyed the other players, picking up waves of anxiety from all around, and a distinct trace of disappointment from a Sullustan across the table.

The doctor looked at his cards; he held the Mistress of Sabers and the Five of Staves, giving him positive eighteen. _Oh, please hold_, he willed to his cards, shoving a large stack of credits into the center of the table. Intimidated, the Sullustan's large ears drooped and he folded. _That's one._

As the rounds of betting continued, more players were slowly eliminated until only Ganhuff and a Zabrak remained. They eyed each other neutrally over the rims of their cards. "Hit me," the doctor barked and lifted his drink to his lips.

The dealer passed the card to him, face down, then flipped it over. "The Five of Sabers," the Bith announced and Ganhuff's heart leapt.

_Twenty three! Pure Sabacc, I've won!_ Calmly, Ganhuff pushed his entire stake into the center of the table. "All in," he announced.

The Zabrak sighed. "I can't cover that with the credits I have on the table," he said. "But… if you would permit me to enter a marker, I have a ship I can offer up."

Ganhuff's pulse raced but he kept his composure. "A ship, you say? What kind?"

"A _Firefly_-class mid-bulk transport. I use it for moving cargo."

"That's an awfully old ship."

"She'll get off the ground."

Turning to Ganhuff, the Bith dealer asked, "Is this marker acceptable to you?"

A ship _and_ all these winnings? It seemed too good to be true, but one should never look a gift nerf in the mouth. The doctor made a show of considering his decision, making the Zabrak sweat. "Very well, I'll take your marker."

The Zabrak grinned and placed a datapad displaying the ship's deed into the pot.

"Call," Ganhuff said curtly, turning over his cards to reveal his winning hand. A broad smile split his features.

His opponent revealed his cards one at a time, with excruciating slowness. First was the Idiot, and a tinge of worry touched Ganhuff's mind. _Is he bluffing? The Idiot's Array is the one hand that can beat me; please let him be bluffing!_ Next he turned over the Two of Coins and the doctor's forced smile fell completely. _All he needs is a three and I'm sunk! I can't believe I walked right into this trap! I've doomed us all!_ As the Zabrak touched his third and final card, Ganhuff's throat went completely dry. _No, no, no…_ he prayed, and the Zabrak turned over the Evil One.

A shiver ran up Ganhuff's spine and he fell into a daze. _Zero_, he thought. _He has absolutely nothing; he_ was_ trying to bluff me!_ Relief flooded through him and he sagged visibly in his seat.

"Congratulations, Master Riscan, you've won," said the Bith as the Zabrak stood and offered his hand to shake.

###

"I thought you said this thing would get off the ground!" Ganhuff demanded upon seeing the beat up, old Firefly.

"It will," the Zabrak called out to him, zipping away in an airspeeder. "But after that, I'm not making any promises!"

For several minutes, Ganhuff just stood on the landing pad, the wind whipping about him on Cloud City's upper levels, staring hopelessly at the rusty freighter. _At least we can afford to fix it_, he thought with a shrug of his narrow shoulders.

###

Buruk hadn't been happy, but then he never was. Lynli, on the other hand, had been elated to see their new ship. She'd always had a preference for the Corellian Engineering Corporation's vessels and now she got to baby one of her own. Swooping about the engine room on a hoverchair as she continued to recover, she said, "Trust me, we treat her right, take good care of her, a ship like this will keep going until she hits something."

"Comforting," Buruk grunted, watching her scoot about the large radial engine.

They sold the ruined _Bes'uliik_, and spent days moving their belongings to the new ship and refitting her. The Firefly had a bulbous tail like a gigantic insect's abdomen housing the main drive and a cockpit reminiscent of a ronto's head and neck. Sprouting from the midsection on either side was an additional pair of rotating Blue Harvester BV7G12 sublight engines, above which were nestled a pair of escape pods.

As the refitting neared completion, Lynli, back on her feet, found Buruk sitting perched on the catwalk overlooking the cargo bay. He looked deep in thought, staring past the durasteel deck below, swinging his legs back and forth like a kid. Taking a seat beside him, she asked, "So, what do you think of your new ship?"

"She's not exactly built for bounty hunting," he answered distantly. He sounded almost lost.

_He must still be mourning the _Bes'uliik_. Who cares that I was shot?_ She placed a hand lightly on his shoulder and said aloud, "Well, neither is her captain. He's sheltering two wanted fugitives." He merely nodded absently. "You have a name picked out?" she pressed.

"_Jai'galaar_," he replied.

"_Jai'galaar_?"

"It means 'shriek-hawk' in _Mando'a_."

"Why not something a little more personal?" she suggested.

He looked at her quizzically. "Personal?"

"Yeah, you know," she insisted, lightly punching his arm. "Something suggestive of you and what you really want… What _do_ you really want Buruk?"

The Mandalorian turned his scarred face away and thought a moment. At last he murmured, "_Cuun'yaim_."

When he offered nothing further, Lynli asked, "Meaning?"

The Mandalorian released an exasperated sigh and flung himself onto his back. "When we were on Pelorum, I saw ordinary people who spent their lives settled in one place." He stared at the ceiling as though into his own past and Lynli knew she was getting a rare glimpse of the man beneath the armor. "Home's a strange concept to my people—most of us haven't even _been_ to Mandalore.

"The _Bes'uliik_ represented independence to me, mobility, even a means to an end, but most of all it was my home. Now, this ship is home. _Our Home_."

Lynli's lekku twitched appreciatively. "Our home…" she repeated, lowering her voice to a whisper.


	13. Free Ride

The _Firefly_-class transport lifted off the landing pad, its nose dipping slightly as the new pilot became accustomed to her unfamiliar controls. The main drive left an amber glow in the ship's wake as it soared upward through Bespin's skies, swirling the golden clouds as it headed toward space. Her crew had been hard at work for days, modifying several of her systems; so hard at work, in fact, that they hadn't noticed the insectoid being who now clung to their hull, even as they passed through the upper atmosphere into the vacuum of space.

A member of the Gand species, Maalku Tekot needed no atmosphere. His specialized suit supplied him with all the rich ammonia gas he needed to survive as he held tight to the Firefly's durasteel plating. All was silent in the vast blackness save his steady inhalation and exhalation of breath.

As the ship moved away from Bespin's gravity well, Maalku squeezed his multifaceted eyes shut and held on tight with three-fingered hands. The Firefly pointed its nose at a distant star and, with a flicker of pseudomotion, leapt forward into hyperspace.

###

"You see?" Buruk threw Lynli a wry grin from the pilot's seat as he locked down the control yoke and sat back. "What'd I tell you? Easy as uj cake."

His Twi'lek partner rolled her eyes and released her death grip on her seat cushion. "Are we going to have to hire a pilot to fly this crate?" she remarked.

"Or blackmail, that seems to work well on the doc," the Mandalorian replied. "You know I bet we could find someone in Mos Eisley that's got a price on his head that could really round out this crew of fugitives I've gathered."

"Ha ha," Lynli said condescendingly as she stood and headed aft toward the cockpit hatch. "You know, I think I like you better when you're not being so cheerful."

"How come?" he grinned, eager to turn the tables on her for all the times she'd been a pain in his _shebs_.

Pausing in the doorway, she turned and answered, "Because it usually means something bad is about to happen. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got work to do in the engine room."

"Try to squeeze some extra speed out of her while you're back there," Buruk called after her. "Nilak said he had work for us and I want to get to Tatooine as quick as possible." _Never thought_ those_ words would ever leave my mouth_, he thought with a chuckle, kicking his booted feet up onto the console and watching the onrushing kaleidoscope of stars.

###

Maalku scuttled along the ship's hull like a Corellian spider lizard on its parent. Anchoring himself near a viewport that allowed him to see into the Firefly's galley, the Gand watched and waited, slowing his breathing and allowing his eyelids to droop as he prepared to pierce the veil and gaze into the mist. He was a Findsman, a Gand adept at reading the mists and divining the secrets they held to locate people, even things. It had been the mists that had led him to this ship that carried not one, but two profitable bounties.

Maalku preferred to meditate in hyperspace; it provided the best vantage point from which to glimpse the swirling currents of the galaxy. He could feel the ebb and flow of emotions from countless beings, could intuit the outcomes of events taking place in far-flung star systems.

He foresaw a time of great suffering and hopelessness but such was not his concern. Searching the myriad strings of cause-and-effect, he focused on the Firefly's crew. The mists swirled, obstructing his vision with irrelevant things: a pair of tortoises locked in battle with one another, one with a gold shell, the other green; a trumpet flower blooming in a desert wasteland in the shade of a cactus, all the more glorious for its bleak surroundings. What did these vague signs mean and why were they intruding on his focus on more pertinent matters?

Taking a deep breath and holding it, Maalku concentrated harder. Again, the strange images intruded on his meditation, this time showing him a piranha beetle trampled underfoot by the golden-shelled tortoise, only for it to pause and allow the beetle to ride on its back; a strange act of kindness to a dangerous predator.

At last the mists showed him what he needed. The ship's crew had been separated; a trivial matter had called the mechanic away to the engine room where she—and Maalku was certain it was a she—would keep her attention while the Findsman entered the ship. The captain remained in the cockpit.

Maalku exhaled, opening his eyes as he left the mists, and crawled to the upper hatch a meter away.

###

Lynli knelt beside the _Cuun'yaim_'s radial engine with a soldering iron, wearing a pair of polarized goggles to protect her eyes from the flashing light as she worked. Across from her, W4-L3 worked diligently with his built-in arc welder.

She'd found the little utility droid deactivated in the cargo hold when they first started exploring their new ship. He looked pretty old, older even than the Firefly, a distant cousin to more modern R2 units. Wally, as she called him, had a blocky droid chassis attached to four wheeled legs and a flattened, disk-shaped head. He spoke in beeps and warbles, and frequently blinked his large blue photoreceptor. He didn't look like much, but Lynli had to admit he knew his way around an engine and it was all she could do to keep up with the little droid's initiative.

"Almost done on that side?" she asked, setting down the soldering iron and wiping a sleeve across her brow.

Wally answered with an affirmative whistle and rolled around to where she knelt, fixing his photoreceptor on her intently, blinking it on and off several times. He hated being idle.

_If only I could find a _man_ with your work ethic Wally_, she thought with a smile. Patting the droid on the head as she stood, she said, "The compression coil should be fine for now. Maybe if we tinker with the horizontal boosters a bit, we can shave some time off the trip."

Wally hooted excitedly, rocking back and forth on his wheels.

"Hey, settle down," she admonished the little droid. "You'll blow a circuit and—"

She was cut off by the hiss of the engine room door sliding shut, followed by an audible click. They were locked in. "What in the worlds…" she wondered aloud as she went to the hatch and pressed the control. Nothing happened. Irritated, she keyed the ship-wide comm and called, "Okay quit being cute Buruk."

There was no answer.

"I mean it, this isn't funny," she snapped. Only dead air returned over the comlink. She tried banging on the door to get someone's attention but to no effect. She couldn't slice the door's controls; she'd reworked it specifically so no one could break in and disable the ship. "Any ideas Wally?" she asked, leaning heavily against the bulkhead.

The utility droid blinked several times as if confused, then warbled mournfully, his head drooping slightly.

###

Maalku had to act quickly. With the engine room door sealed and the ship-wide comm disabled, the captain would surely investigate the anomaly. The Gand hurried to the galley and closed the hatch, ensured it could not be opened from within, then turned and rushed back down the corridor to the starboard staircase leading down to the cargo hold. His booted feet banged noisily against the durasteel catwalk as he ran for the stairs across the way and climbed back up to the other side of the galley.

###

An indicator light winked into existence on the control panel, catching Buruk's attention. He leaned forward in his seat to read the label; "engine room hatch sealed." _Weird_, he thought. _What is that woman doing in there?_ Reaching for the comlink, he considered asking the doctor to go check on her. Instead, he decided to bug her himself; it wasn't every day he got the chance to get under her skin for a change.

"Graceful, Lyn'ika. What'd you do, trip the hatch seal?" he chuckled. There was no answer, so he went on, "Don't pout; you give me a lot worse ribbing than this, _chayaik_."

Still, he got no reply. _Comm must be out_, he thought, rolling his eyes. _Some mechanic._ Getting up, he strolled through the corridor, down into the galley, and pressed the control to open the hatch at the far end. Nothing happened. Buruk's brows beetled in a frown as he pressed the switch again; the hatch remained shut.

Abruptly, the opposite hatch hissed closed behind him, followed by a loud click. Buruk whirled around and ran to the other end of the galley, pressing the control frantically. The hatch remained shut tight. Frustrated, the Mandalorian hammered his fist against the durasteel. He was sealed in.

Turning back around, he surveyed his makeshift prison. His eyes scanned over the cabinets and food containers and across the dining table and chairs. "Well," he said aloud, "at least I won't go hungry."

###

_One to go_, Maalku thought, turning from the sealed door and resting his shockprod staff across his shoulders.

Deciding to explore the ship, the Gand made his way to the cockpit, inspecting the pilot and copilot stations. Maalku had never learned to fly, preferring to sneak aboard other vessels the same way he had done to the Firefly, and the myriad switches, knobs, and buttons caught his fancy. He saw on the navicomputer their course for Tatooine; there he could turn in the Twi'lek girl to agents of Black Sun and contact the Republic to send their Judicials to fetch the doctor.

And the captain? Surely someone would pay for him.

Six sloped hatches lined both sides of the corridor leading from the cockpit to the galley, no doubt the crew's quarters. An inspection of each yielded nothing; a ladder led down from the entrance into the room itself and only two showed signs of occupation. Likewise with the two escape pods, accessible by the catwalks overhanging the expansive cargo hold. The hold itself was empty, save a lone swoop bike parked in the far corner that looked as though it had been through rough times.

Through a hatch at the aft end of the hold, Maalku passed into a spacious common room furnished with sofas and settees scattered about and a dejarik table in one corner. Adjacent to the starboard bulkhead and enclosed from the rest of the common area was a medical bay, gleaming white and smelling of disinfectants. In the center of the med bay was a small operating table capable of reconfiguring to various positions.

At the very tail end of the starship were eight dormitories, two pairs stacked on top of each other, port and starboard, with access ladders leading to the upper pairs. One showed signs of occupations: an unmade sleeping pallet, an active glowlamp, and a datapad displaying the latest issue of the Core World Medical Journal. Somehow Maalku had missed the doctor.

_I missed him… Very well. 'The kaadu seeks not the bloodthirsty runyip, but rather lets the Jawa come to him.'_ Taking a seat on the sleeping pallet, the Findsman crossed his legs and began to meditate.

###

Ganhuff stood hunched over the 'fresher, regretting the heavy meal he'd treated himself to before their departure. _Where in the galaxy did that maniac learn to fly?_ he wondered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The rocky takeoff had proven too much for even his stomach and he couldn't hold it back any longer. Once they had safely entered hyperspace, he'd unfastened himself from his acceleration chair and ran for the refresher station.

_Thank Providence these walls are soundproofed_, he thought, rinsing his mouth out in the basin. He'd hate for the others to know he got airsick during takeoff; what kind of surgeon couldn't hold down his own gorge?

At last Ganhuff stepped out into the sparsely furnished common area and surveyed the room. Hardly anything of interest; he decided to head up to the cockpit and chastise Buruk for the rough liftoff. _Who knows?_ he thought while mounting the stairway to the aft corridor,_ Maybe I'll get lucky and our lovely first mate will be there as well._

To his puzzlement, he found both the engine room and aft galley hatches sealed. Making his way through the cargo bay, he found the forward galley hatch sealed as well and the cockpit empty. Where had everybody gone? Both escape pods had been present when he'd passed through the hold. A sly grin spread across his lips as a thought occurred to him. _Perhaps they're having a little private fun and don't want to be interrupted, he-he-he._

###

Lynli paced back and forth wondering why the devil Buruk hadn't come and let her out of the engine room yet. She and Wally had tried slicing into the door's controls several times, but without success; they'd simply programmed the firewall too well for their own good. Whoever had locked them in had used that to his advantage.

The little utility droid cocked his disk-shaped head to one side and blinked his photoreceptor while tootling a question at her.

"No Wally, I don't think Buruk is coming for us," she sighed, leaning against the bulkhead and crossing her arms across her chest.

He whistled again, lowering his gaze to the floor.

"We tried slicing the door half a dozen times already," she growled. "Face it, there's no way to open it from this side."

Wally looked up at her and hooted more insistently, jerking his gaze back downward.

Lynli raised a curious eyebrow. "Slice the _floor_? Have you blown a circuit? There's no hatch there."

The utility droid made an irritated blatting sound and extended his arc welder. Sparks shot up from the durasteel deck plate where it burned a neat line in the metal.

"That's what you meant!" Lynli exclaimed, leveraging off the wall and grabbing for her own cutting tool. "Slice _through_ the floor!"

Indeed, directly beneath the engine room was the aft dormitory. From there she could make her way to the cockpit and find out what was going on.

###

Ganhuff halted mid-stride in the doorway to his room. There, sitting cross-legged on his bed was a Gand. The stocky insectoid wore shabby brown robes over his chitinous exoskeleton, a breathing apparatus over his beaked mouth, and a wide, conical straw hat atop his head. Ganhuff took one step backward before the Gand took a single, noisy breath through his mask and said, "A dish of shadun too quickly prepared may still prick the diner."

Ganhuff stopped in his tracks, cocking his head to one side. "Excuse me?"

The translucent membranes over the Gand's multifaceted eyes slid open and the alien stared at him with two large ebony gems from beneath the hat's brim. "A proverb," he clarified in a buzzing voice produced by the breathing gear's vocabulator. "You should not be so hasty to leave, Doctor Riscan. Where is there to go?"

Ganhuff's eyes went wide. _He knows my name! He's a bounty hunter!_ The doctor's hand immediately dropped to his side, only to slap uselessly at his hip.

"You weren't expecting trouble aboard your own ship, were you Doctor?" the bounty hunter asked, holding up Ganhuff's holstered blaster in his three-fingered hand.

_Blast!_ "What have you done with the others?" he demanded.

"They're fine," the Gand assured him. "They won't disturb my meditations." He closed his eyes and returned his hands to his lap.

"That's it?" Ganhuff wondered aloud. "You're just going to sit there and meditate?"

The Gand tossed him a pair of binder cuffs. "Feel free to put those on."

"You're an awfully strange bounty hunter, giving me a choice," the doctor said.

"I'm no bounty hunter," the insectoid replied flatly. "A bounty hunter is a mercenary who places acquisitions under citizen's arrest for the sake of making profit."

"And how does that differ from what you're doing right now?" Ganhuff sneered, leaning against the doorframe.

"Well, I'm meditating, for one thing," the Gand pointed out. "I am Findsman; my path is not one in pursuit of profit, but truth. I follow the mists and go where they take me."

Ganhuff had met few Gands during his life on Coruscant and had gotten know even fewer. "The mists?" he asked.

"The ammonia mists of Gand," the insectoid answered. "They shroud the future and hide omens which we Findsmen use to guide us on our path to universal truth. It was the mists that led me to seek you out."

Ganhuff snorted. "Sounds like a backwater interpretation of the Force to me."

His captor refused to be baited. "If you wish to call it that," he said evenly, "but I'm not locked in an eternal struggle against evil. I simply do what I am willed to do."

###

"We did it, little guy!" Lynli announced with a huge grin as she patted her mechanical companion on the head. Wally scooted in and took hold of the square of durasteel with his gripper arm and lifted it up, revealing the aft dormitory below. "You stay here," she whispered as she lowered herself down through the hole, careful not to catch herself on the ragged edges. The droid didn't really have a choice; his four wheeled legs weren't exactly conducive to climbing.

Wally released a low mournful warble as she reached out for the nearest ladder, stretching her arm to its limit. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself farther, brushing the metal rung with her middle finger. Kicking her legs, she built her momentum and swung for the ladder, grabbing hold of the bars as she let herself go from the hole in the ceiling. Wally moaned his concern as he rapidly blinked his big blue photoreceptor.

Sliding down the ladder, she hit the floor and ran for the cargo hold and the cockpit. _Boy is Buruk going to get an earful when I get a hold of him!_

###

Buruk sat on his bunk, wrapping bandages around his hands, cursing silently to himself. He'd bloodied himself up pretty good prying a grate free in the galley floor, then squeezing himself into a heating duct and shimmying along forward to the crew quarters centimeter by centimeter.

He was convinced now that someone else was aboard his ship. He wasn't sure how, but they were definitely onboard and causing havoc. The way he and Lynli had been isolated from the rest of the vessel, it was certain to be someone after the doc's bounty. Well, his feelings about Riscan aside, no one hurt Buruk's comrades and walked away unscathed, never again.

###

A series of loud clangs outside the room shook Maalku from his ruminations. _What is that?_ he wondered, taking hold of his shockprod staff and rising to his feet. "Step aside," he ordered, sweeping the doctor from his path with the shockprod's shaft as he peered out the door.

A violet-skinned Twi'lek girl receded into the distance, her lekku waving in her wake as she fled toward the cargo hold. "Stop!" he called. She didn't even look back, passing through the open hatchway and making for the tiered staircase. Turning back to Riscan in his room, Maalku said, "Stay here," and sealed the door shut before giving chase.

_How did she escape the engine room?_ he marveled as he ran after her. She was nimble, mounting the stairs two, sometimes three at a time. By the time he caught up with her, she was sealing the cockpit hatch shut in his face and his exoskeleton rebounded off the durasteel plating with a crack that echoed down the corridor.

Rubbing his cranium, Maalku squeezed his eyes shut against the stars dancing in his vision. At the sound of an opening hatch behind him, he reached into a sleeve and hurled an ammonia grenade over his shoulder. The gas cloud that filled the hall was lethal to most creatures save his own kind and when he turned around he fully expected to see a corpse sprawled across the floor.

Instead, from the swirling mist, sprang a being encased from head to toe in armor. Maalku brandished his shockprod staff, thrusting the forked prongs forward so that the crotch slammed into his attacker's abdomen. Electricity arced between the prongs as he triggered the stun bolt and smoke rose from the armored man, but he hardly slowed, roaring as he smashed a gloved fist into the Gand's temple.

Maalku's head whipped around and the human delivered another blow on the opposite side. More stars danced in his eyes as fog filled his senses. _Stronger than I thought!_ The armored man took hold of the shockprod staff and twisted it from his grip, tossing it aside. He took hold of the Gand's robes and slammed his helmet against Maalku's face.

As he released his grip, Maalku sank to his knees into the dissipating ammonia cloud and looked up into the face of his attacker. A black T-shaped visor, impossible for his eyes to pierce, was framed in a sand-gold helmet. _Wasn't prepared for this… _The man's boot came up and slammed into the Gand's stomach, doubling him over onto the deck.

As that visor glared down at him, the armored man reached up and removed his helm, revealing a pale face covered in various small nicks and cuts accumulated over the years and a wicked vertical burn scar slashing over his right eye. He wore his red hair in a long braided ponytail that wrapped around his neck like a scarf and his green eyes stared blaster bolts down at Maalku.

The warrior looked up as the cockpit door hissed open behind Maalku and a woman's voice asked, "Is he dead?"

The warrior placed a boot on Maalku's head and snarled, "Not yet."

Maalku's eyes shot open as he recalled his earlier vision. "Y-you," he stuttered weakly. "The golden tortoise…"

The warrior looked down at his fallen foe, into his glistening black, multifaceted eyes. "Huh?"

"You are the golden tortoise." Without removing the man's foot from his head, Maalku shifted himself into a humble bow. "You have trampled Tekot underfoot. Please permit Tekot to ride you."

The foot was removed and Maalku peered up as the warrior shot his partner a confused look. "What do you mean 'ride me'? Who's Tekot?"

"It's how Gands talk," the girl explained. "They use third person whenever they feel shamed."

"Tekot has foreseen this moment, Great Tortoise, and Tekot begs you to allow Tekot to accompany you on your journey, wherever it may take us."

The girl snickered and the warrior's eyebrows arched as he appeared even more confused. At last he sighed and answered, "Fine, whatever… Just… stop calling me a tortoise."


	14. For a Few Credits More

"This could've gone a lot better…" Buruk muttered, disheartened by the five thugs holding him at gunpoint in his own cargo hold. They had him reaching for the sky while a trio of their comrades dug through the shipping crates stacked nearly as high as the catwalks above, making a real mess of things.

Buruk's friend in Mos Eisley, Nilak, had come through on his promise of work moving cargo. _He just neglected to mention that it was _stolen_ cargo, from one of Jabba the Hutt's warehouses._ A crew of the Hutt's enforcers had jumped them with their shields still down when they'd left hyperspace over Concord Dawn and boarded them before Lynli could say "Hutt-slime."

"Buruk Kelborn, Mighty Warrior and Master of Understatement," sighed the _Cuun'yaim_'s resident doctor, Ganhuff Riscan. "What do you say you employ some of your more brutish talents and resolve this, hm?"

"Stow it!" one of the gunmen snarled, a scaly Trandoshan with a deep scar across his snout. He and his comrades stood facing the pair in a semicircle, their backs to the airlock and the pressurized umbilical between their ships. "You know what Jabba's gonna do to you once we deliver you to him?"

"Something over-the-top, I hope," Buruk replied dryly. "I've nearly died so many times, I couldn't settle for anything less." He was playing for time, hoping Lynli or the Gand Findsman, Maalku, would hurry up and think of something. He didn't know how much longer he and the doc could stall them in the cargo bay.

One of the strongmen made to wrench a crate open. Before he could lay hands on it, Riscan blurted out, "You don't want to do that…"

The Trandoshan snorted. "That's rich. Jedi mind tricks from a glit-biter."

"I'm perfectly serious," the doctor pressed, nodding to Buruk. "My barbarous friend here happens to be a Mandalorian, in case the armor hadn't tipped you to that. Do you honestly think he wouldn't booby-trap the containers for an occurrence just such as this?"

Buruk threw the doctor a wary glance. He was fishing; Buruk wasn't dumb enough to booby-trap something he might be next to when opened.

"Touch that seal and _pchoo_…" Riscan finished with a smirk.

The Trandoshan narrowed his slit-pupiled gaze at them. After a moment's hesitation he growled, "Disarm it."

"That's going to be a problem…" Buruk began. He was about to add, _there's also a tamper catch_, before the airlock suddenly cycled open and the _Cuun'yaim_ corkscrewed away from the pirate ship, tearing the umbilical free. The eight thugs tumbled through the opening as the air in the cargo hold blew out into vacuum with a deafening roar.

Before they could join them, Buruk snatched Ganhuff by the wrist and fired his gauntlet's whipcord, snagging a catwalk above and holding them safely within the ship while the airlock resealed itself. Breathing deep as the hold pressurized, Buruk thumbed his comlink and said, "Nice timing." Next to him, the doctor shivered where he stood, dancing from foot to foot and rubbing his hands in an effort to warm himself after the abrupt drop in temperature.

"Sorry for the delay," Lynli replied, "but I had to wait for Maalku to get into position in case he had to catch one of you."

"How thoughtful," Buruk said. "Be sure to thank the little bug for me."

"You are most welcome, Great Tortoise," the Gand's artificial voice buzzed over the comlink.

"Plot us a landing vector," Buruk ordered, ignoring the embarrassing epithet and Lynli's giggling. "Let's get this grain planetside and get on our way."

"Aye-aye, Cap'n," Lynli answered, so cheerfully he could almost hear her salute.

###

As Buruk stepped out onto the dusty soil of Concord Dawn for the first time in twenty-five years, a warm breeze blew across his face, conjuring half-remembered images of a life lost to him long ago. His mother used to take him with her on trips to the general store when they needed something for the farm. He remembered toddling alongside her, hand-in-hand, pushing his long red hair out of his eyes and smiling up at her.

Shoving those images aside, Buruk cleared his throat noisily as he led the way into the small spaceport settlement of Maori, which served as the planet's capital. To Lynli, he said, "We're supposed to meet a Duros named Baniss. He's sort of the agricultural commissioner here and he's connected to Nilak."

"Is that supposed to put us at ease?" the Twi'lek asked, arching an eyebrow at him as they passed through a pair of swinging doors into a building whose sign simply stated "cantina".

The cantina's interior was dimly lit with tables and chairs scattered about with few occupants; one of them, sitting in the far corner, was a Duros. A long, grimy mirror hung behind the bar and the walls were covered in cracked and peeling paint, revealing patches of old wood and duraplas beneath.

"It's supposed to tell you who we're here to meet," Buruk muttered back. "Maalku, hang back and watch for trouble, Doc—hey, where's the doc?"

"Slipped off to find an Oobalah den the minute his feet touched ground," his partner answered.

"Great," the Mandalorian sighed. "We won't be seeing him again until we raise ship."

"Something just doesn't seem right…" the Gand murmured.

Buruk stopped dead in his tracks, hand darting to one of his blasters as he scanned the room for trouble. "What is it?" he demanded.

"A _shipment_ goes by speeder truck… but a _cargo_ travels by ship…" Maalku blinked his large, multifaceted eyes in confusion. "Does that seem right to you?"

Relaxing, Buruk and Lynli made their way to the waiting Duros and slid into the chairs across from him. "Commissioner Baniss, I presume?"

The blue-skinned alien tilted his bald head in greeting and fixed them with a crimson stare. "Are you the traders Nilak told me about?"

"That'd be us," Buruk confirmed. "Our hold's bursting with grain sacks, just waiting to be offloaded and sent to the farmers."

"Excellent," Baniss replied, the corners of his mouth turning up in a lipless smile that somehow did nothing to alleviate the look of perpetual dourness all Duros seemed to have on their noseless faces.

Once Baniss transferred their payment, he stood and left on some sort of official business or another having to do with the unloading of their cargo, leaving a few credits on the table and asking them to enjoy a drink on him.

"Well?" Lynli asked, lifting a glass of ale to her lips.

"Well what?" Buruk replied innocently, sipping his own drink.

"Tell me I'm right."

He rolled his eyes and set his glass down on the table. "I won't because you're not."

"Honest work delivering cargo pays better than chasing down bounties halfway across the galaxy any day," she insisted, draping a lekku across her shoulders.

"_Stealing_ cargo and _smuggling_ it across the galaxy is not honest work. That makes us the sort of criminals I'd otherwise be turning into justice as a bounty hunter."

"Like you did with me and Ganhuff?" she asked coyly.

"That's different."

"And stealing grain shipments from a Hutt and bringing it to the people he's been hording it from isn't?"

Buruk sat back in his chair and let out an exasperated sigh. "I can't believe I'm being lectured about morality by the Jedi impersonator."

"So says the Jedi killer."

That sobered him and he threw her a wary glance.

A long forgotten voice broke the tension. "Buruk?" it called. The Mandalorian turned his head, searching for the source. "Buruk Kelborn?" A light-skinned human with a wave of brown hair and a thin, vertical strip of beard on his chin rushed over carrying a frothy mug. "My skies, it is you!"

For a moment Buruk stared dumbfounded at the man until recognition finally dawned. "Cort!" He stood from his chair and threw his arms around the newcomer, clapping him on the back. "By the _manda_, I haven't seen you in a Sith's age. Have a seat."

"I haven't seen you since the fire," Cort said, taking him up on his offer. "What happened to you?"

"A lot," Buruk answered. "More than I can tell."

"Care to introduce me to your friend, Buruk?" Lynli asked with a hint of annoyance at being ignored.

Turning to his partner, the Mandalorian said, "This is Cort Davin. He was my best mate in primary school before—" Abruptly he cut himself off, his giddy expression falling into bitter memories.

"Before the Death Watch came," Cort finished darkly.

"The Death Watch?" Lynli asked, eyes darting between the two friends.

"A Mandalorian splinter group," Buruk explained. "Raiders, barbarians, savages. A lot of families were torn apart when their war with Jaster's group spilled over onto Concord Dawn." He shrugged and took a swig of his ale. "When mine was, they took me in."

Cort nearly choked on his own beverage. "You're kidding," he said between fits of coughing. "You run with those marauders?"

"For a time I was Vizsla's own son," Buruk admitted. "But it didn't take me long to figure out I didn't fit in, so I jumped ship and joined Jaster. Jango was with them."

"So what happened?" Lynli pressed.

"I heard Jaster was killed," Cort murmured. "Too bad. He was like a legend."

"Yeah," Buruk replied. "Jango took his place as Mandalore. Then a year ago the Jedi slaughtered us all on Galidraan. All except Jango, Silas, Kex, and me."

They stared into their drinks for several heartbeats before Cort finally raised his glass. "_Buy'ce gal, buy'ce tal..._"

Buruk raised his own and they continued the chant as Lynli looked on in fascination.

_Vebor'ad ures alit_

_Mhi draar baat'I meg'parjii'se_

_Kote lo'shebs'ul narit_

Together they downed their glasses and forced the bitter subject from their hearts. "So what has the great Cort Davin been doing since those days of playing Journeyman Protectors in the fields when we should've been doing chores?"

A wry grin split the other man's features. His hand dipped below the table for a moment and returned grasping a strip of red cloth that he wore as a sash around his waist. "I joined them, of course."

Buruk chuckled. "Well I've got some news for you, Officer Davin, that cargo we hauled in here was stolen."

"I know," Cort replied, fixing him with a serious look. "Who do you think convinced Baniss to hire you through Nilak? Jabba's been pirating grain shipments bound for Concord Dawn for months, shipments these farmers need so they can afford to feed their families. We don't have jurisdiction in Hutt space so we've been contracting Nilak to hire smugglers to steal them back for us."

"Well, when you need a thief, hire a professional I guess," Lynli reasoned.

"But Jabba's only half the problem," Cort continued. "Most of the shipments that make it here end up being stolen from the distribution sites by bandits: your old comrades from the Death Watch. That grain can't get where it needs to go unless it's guarded and we only have a few Journeyman Protectors. This whole planet is basically frontier."

Buruk took a deep breath, released it through his nose, and looked his old friend in the eye. "So when you need a mercenary, hire a professional," he concluded.

"That's about the size of it," Cort answered.

"All right," the Mandalorian replied briskly. "Give me one of those fancy red sashes and I'll pay the old family a visit."

###

The following day Buruk made ready to head out for the distribution site. His boot spurs clicked on the durasteel deck as he walked his swoop bike down the _Cuun'yaim_'s loading ramp, adorned in his sand-gold armor and wearing the red sash of a Journeyman Protector cinched around his waist.

"Why're you doing this?" Lynli asked, leaning against the loading bay wall, arms folded across her chest. Her gold eyes watched him closely.

Uncomfortable beneath her stare, Buruk said, "Doing what?"

"Getting yourself mixed up with these Death Watch guys."

"Why do you want to know?"

She frowned at him. "I want to make sure _you_ know why. Is it because of your history with them? You want to destroy them too?"

"I'm doing this," he said slowly, "because it serves justice and because a very good friend of mine asked for my help."

"You think this serves justice?"

He shrugged. "It's the right thing to do. Besides, after those upgrades we made to the ship in Mos Eisley, we need some extra cash." Slipping his helmet over his head, he asked, "Do you remember the plan?"

"Yeah," she sighed. "We'll wait for you to signal if things get too hairy. Just don't go being a hero."

She didn't see him grin and wink behind his visor before he threw one leg over the swoop and set out across the countryside, sash whipping behind him.

Hours later, Buruk stood atop a speeder truck, cradling his blaster rifle beneath the concealing folds of his cloak. He'd prepared the distribution site as well as he could, fortifying his position. He hated static defense in the open, but he'd been given no choice.

He looked out over the crowd of farmers, lined up with hover carts to receive their grain allotments from the Agricultural Commission. They looked nervous, murmuring to each other in uneasy voices. Their eyes darted over the horizon; the farmers could feel the attack coming like an approaching thunderstorm. Anyone who lived on a world frequented by the Death Watch learned to expect it. They also learned not to bother fighting back.

At last it happened. With his helmet's advanced imagers, Buruk spotted their approach from three directions, thick dust clouds kicked up by repulsorlift vehicles, probably swoops or landspeeders. Addressing the Commission agent beside him without turning his head, he said, "Hold steady. This is where the fun begins."

The company man swallowed past a lump in his throat and began checking his blaster to make sure it was fully charged. "Just keep your head down and these people calm. I'll handle this," the Mandalorian continued.

The Death Watchmen were within five hundred meters now and he counted twelve of them, hollering war cries and firing their blasters into the air. _Cheap scare tactics_, Buruk thought. _At least when I was a kid they were _slightly_ more disciplined._

The lead vehicle was a SoroSuub X-31 landspeeder with the passenger seat torn out and replaced with a mounted heavy repeating blaster. It was the deadliest of their overt weaponry but Buruk knew each of the raiders was himself a walking arsenal. Still, he saw no reason to let something like that stay on the battlefield for long. Once a pair of escorting swoop bikes followed it into the kill zone, Buruk keyed the charges.

The overlapping blast radii enveloped the speeder and both bikes, detonating their engines and washing over their riders with deadly tongues of flame. A fifth Watchman flying a swoop just behind veered off course and crashed into the ground as he was peppered by thousands of tiny shards of shrapnel. _Durasteel rain_, Buruk thought with a smirk.

With the enemy's numbers cut down by a third, Buruk brought his rifle up and took careful aim through the scope. Settling the crosshairs over the fallen raider as he dragged himself to his feet, he squeezed the trigger, shooting the man in the sternum. He crumpled to the dirt and didn't get back up.

The remaining Watchmen opened fire on their attacker. Blaster bolts zinged past his head as Buruk dropped onto his stomach atop the speeder truck and more pinged against its side, showering the nearest farmers with sparks. "Don't worry!" he shouted to the cowering civilians. "I've got everything under control!"

Keying his helmet comlink, he called, "Anytime now Doc!"

"My pleasure to oblige," Riscan's voice replied in his ear, all haughty chauvinism, even through the static.

Abruptly a high powered blaster whine sang through the air, a bolt from the hillside striking one of the hunkered Death Watchmen in the helmet. _Fire and move, fire and move_, Buruk thought to the doctor.

With the enemy's ranks now cut in half by fire coming from within and without the engagement zone, Buruk retook the initiative while they tried to regroup; leaping to his feet, he charged out to meet them, harrying them with short bursts of fire as he went. He could hear the Death Watchmen shouting, "He's a Mandalorian!" "I thought they were all dead!" "Tell _him_ that!" He didn't even notice himself bellowing his own war cry at the top of his lungs.

In less than a minute all but one was down. The remaining marauder scrabbled backward in the dirt as Buruk loomed over him, aiming his blaster at the man's head. "Remember me?" he asked, his voice made all the more menacing as it was filtered through his helmet. "Buruk Kelborn."

"K-K-K-Kelborn!" the bandit stammered, cowering beneath his withering gaze. "You're supposed to be dead! Vizsla said—"

"I'm going to cleanse Concord Dawn of your filth," Buruk barked, interrupting. Keeping his rifle trained on the Watchman, he threw open his cloak, revealing the red sash. "And this makes it legal." He lowered his gun and pointed to an idle swoop. "Go tell whoever's in charge here that the Death Watch is finished on this planet. I see a horned _buy'ce_, I kill the man wearing it. Tell them Vizsla's little boy's coming home!" The raider scrambled to his feet and ran for the waiting bike. "And tell them Hell's coming with me!"

###

"Why'd you have to go and warn them like that?" Lynli groaned in Buruk's ear as he rode up to the small warehouse that served as the Death Watch's compound.

Buruk sighed as he killed the swoop's repulsor engine and coasted to a halt. "One, so he'd lead me right to them," he answered, "and two, to scare the _osik_ out of them. You just be ready."

"Aye-aye, Cap'n," she replied, less enthusiastically than before.

Dismounting the swoop, Buruk proceeded toward the ramshackle building on foot, his cloak billowing in the breeze. Their choice of hideout wasn't a total joke; there wasn't much cover for him to use and the windows were mere slits, ideal for firing holes though he doubted the walls themselves could take much abuse.

"Well, well," a voice called out to him as he came within a hundred meters of the warehouse. "Little Bur'ika, the perpetual orphan. Come looking for your old man?"

Buruk didn't even break stride as he raised his left arm, firing a gauntlet-mounted wrist rocket into the side of the building. The walls shook as the projectile exploded. Buruk broke into a run for his homemade entrance, skidding to a halt just as a jet of flame poured out of the hole, reaching toward him. Diving aside, he rolled up into a crouch, firing his blaster rifle, scything energy bolts back and forth across the opening.

As the Death Watchmen inside adjusted their aim, he threw himself onto his stomach and lobbed a pair of frag grenades inside as their fire passed bare centimeters over his head. The explosions kept them distracted long enough for Buruk to pull himself to his feet and sling his rifle, charging inside while drawing his blaster pistols. One of the bandits came at him with a vibrosword. The humming blade glanced harmlessly off his _beskar_ armor; Buruk shot the man in the face, throwing him off his feet.

Each time Buruk fired as he wove through the hazy warehouse, a Death Watchman fell, until his blasters were empty. Dropping them, he flexed his wrist, ejecting the vibrodagger in his gauntlet and driving it into a man's throat. His body became a rag doll as he gargled something incomprehensible.

At last, no more of the marauders were in sight. Buruk surveyed his handiwork, gasping for breath. Over a dozen Death Watchmen lay still. Retrieving his weapons, he turned and headed for the hole he'd blown in the wall. _Didn't even need a hand,_ he thought smugly.

As he passed through the gaping portal, a series of explosive bolts fired at the corners of the warehouse walls, making him jump as they tumbled to the ground. Turning back to the center of the collapsed building, he at last noticed a huge shipping crate. He'd completely bypassed it during his rampage, ignoring it completely. What was hidden inside? _I have a bad feeling about this…_ he thought, warily backing away.

A second series of small explosions released the seams on the crate, revealing a large armored vehicle with a pair of enormous mass-driver cannons mounted on either side of its top turret. _Oh_ shab, Buruk groaned inwardly as a hatch in the turret popped open and one last bandit leaned out. _A _Canderous_-class assault tank!_

"Hell's coming with you, huh Kelborn?" the Death Watchman jeered down at him. "Well, it was already here waiting!" With that, he dropped back down into the tank and sealed the hatch. The twin guns swiveled in Buruk's direction tracking him as he ran.

Osik_, nowhere to hide!_ his mind screamed as a massive gouge was torn into the ground at his heels by the mass-driver cannon's projectile. The shockwave launched him head over heels, dumping him unceremoniously onto his back. Scrambling to his feet, he keyed his comm. "Lynli, I could use a hand down here! It's definitely gotten too hairy!"

Another blast from the assault tank's main guns missed him by centimeters, again hurling him through the air. "Come on, swoop in to my rescue; that was the plan!" he called. He needed to do something quick. Without thinking, he ran straight at the vehicle. Unable to depress its guns low enough, the pilot tried backing the tank up to get a shot at him.

_Can't get under it or its repulsors would flatten me, _besker'gam_ or not. So, I'll do the next best thing._ Leaping for all he was worth, Buruk slammed into the side of the assault vehicle, his fingers scrabbling over its armored surface for purchase, and crawled up on top of the turret. The tank started jerking about wildly, trying to shake him off but he held tight, hanging on for dear life. It spun about, rotating its turret in the opposite direction, shifting from side to side, even boosting its repulsors to jump a few meters into the air, but nothing dislodged him—until he saw the _Cuun'yaim_ break the horizon and barrel straight toward them.

Kicking off the armored hull, Buruk rolled into a crouch and ran as fast as his legs would carry him, pumping his arms and weaving back and forth to avoid the tank's destructive blasts. When he heard laser fire, he hit the dirt, scrambling over the edge of a dry creek bed. Peering over the top, he spotted the Firefly transport strafing the assault tank, pumping a withering barrage into its top—to no effect. The tank lumbered on toward him, intent on either blasting him to bits or trampling him beneath its repulsors.

Through the comm, Buruk heard Lynli chuckle, "Armored, huh? Well, we've got something for that too!"

His eyes darted up to the ship as it circled around for another pass. A pair of ports irised open on the _Cuun'yaim_'s "shoulders" on either side of the cockpit. Light flared at each port and a pair of proton torpedoes sped toward the tank, washing over its hull with a gout of bright orange fire. Something ruptured and a second, larger explosion followed, throwing bits and pieces of the tank in all directions, some whipping past Buruk, making him drop his head back below the ledge.

Gasping for breath, Buruk keyed his comlink. "I don't remember getting those installed," he said between pants.

"Hey, she's my ship too," Lynli chuckled. "I don't have to tell you _all_ her secrets."

"Thanks for saving my _shebs_."

"Again," she said pointedly.

Clearing his throat, he said, "You asked me if I thought this served justice. Well, just or not, I know the farmers here won't have to worry about feeding their families anymore."

After a pause, Lynli replied, "You did the right thing."


	15. Suspicious Minds

Ganhuff hung suspended in an inky black sea where rainbow-colored nebulae danced before his eyes and it felt like the whole of the universe inhabited his skull. The sensation was exhilarating and he imagined it came close to what the Jedi experienced with their connection to the Force. If only he had been so gifted instead of being forced to rely on drugs to achieve such a euphoric sensation.

Swimming through his own awareness, he could feel the surface thoughts and emotions of his shipmates like ripples in the water of a still pond. They were a jumble of conflicting feelings, chaotic schools of fish darting about in no discernible direction. Maalku, the Gand Findsman, was at peace with himself, looking inward as he "pierced the mist," as he called it. In contrast, Lynli, the ravishing Twi'lek first mate, felt torn between attraction and irritation, gratitude and frustration, kicking violently against the current of her own heart. These emotions were directed at Buruk, their captain, whose thoughts merely consisted of several combinations of sabacc cards, an exercise to prevent unwanted intrusion into his mind, as he merely sank deeper into the abyss like a stone.

A spot of light appeared above him, shimmering on the surface of his oceanic realm, and he knew the high was coming to an end. He fought to stay where he was as he felt himself floating upward toward the light; he didn't want to return to that world, that painful reality where he was a murderer with a price on his head, mired in his own vices.

_Control the spice, control the universe_, a voice—his voice—whispered in his thoughts. What did that mean?

Before he could find out, his head broke the surface and he inhaled a long, deep breath and his eyes fluttered open. Turning over on his bunk in the _Cuun'yaim_'s aft dormitory, he was overcome by a fit of coughing. As it subsided, he forced himself to breathe normally and lay back on the sleeping pallet, shielding his eyes from the harsh light of the glowlamp in the ceiling.

"Is this how you meditate, Blue-Eyed Thernbee?" an artificial voice buzzed, startling the doctor.

Peeking between his fingers at the Gand sitting cross-legged on the floor beside him, Ganhuff asked, "How long have you been sitting there?"

"Long enough to know you are not a well man," Maalku answered, adjusting the cone-shaped straw hat he wore.

"Are you a doctor now?" he snapped.

"When you ingest the galaxies of crystal you do harm to yourself," Maalku continued undeterred. "You feed your awareness but you also feed your own shame by enhancing your awareness of it."

"I should be ashamed," Ganhuff sighed, turning away. "I've become a man of addictions. In order of preference, they are spice, sabacc, women, and drink."

"A fall into a ditch makes a wiser man of you."

"Frag wisdom; give me credits any day."

"Perhaps the mists sent Maalku to you so he could help you truly meditate and find peace," the Findsman offered.

"No thanks," Ganhuff replied, then sat up on his bunk, eying the insectoid sage. "But there is something I think you and 'the mists' can help me with."

Maalku cocked his head to one side. "How can Maalku be of assistance?"

The doctor leaned in closer, conspiratorially, and asked, "You see the future, right?"

"When the mists part, they reveal many things to me," the Gand answered proudly. "Sometimes I see what is to be. It's something we Findsmen are greatly prized for."

"Couldn't have said it better," Ganhuff grinned. "So what do you say we put that prized talent to work for us?"

"The mists are for revealing one's destiny," Maalku insisted, "not for selfish gains."

The doctor pasted a hurt expression on his face. "Selfish? Maalku, I'm insulted you would think so low of me."

"Maalku did not mean to insult. Maalku simply does not feel we should trivialize the window to our journey's path."

"Well, is it wrong it use that window to help us along our path?" Ganhuff asked.

"No," the Gand answered.

"Well in order to keep traveling, we need money to buy fuel and stock the ship with food and water," the doctor pointed out. "We also need it for medical supplies and canisters of ammonia for your life support."

"Maalku supposes…" he wavered, "that is true."

"It is," Ganhuff insisted. "So by coming with me and helping me beat the odds, you'll be helping us along our journey."

Maalku blinked his large, multifaceted eyes several times, contemplating the doctor's reasoning. It was hard to read that chitinous face, half obscured by breathing gear, but he appeared conflicted. "Very well," he finally relented. "Distant water will not quench one's immediate thirst."

_Neither will distant spice_, Ganhuff thought gleefully, mentally rubbing his hands together.

###

Lynli had sealed the galley off from the rest of the ship so no one would discover what she was up to. Several times, through trial and error, she'd filled the room up with smoke; Wally now had the air scrubbers working at triple capacity to keep it cleared out.

A timer went off and, dashing across the cabin to the dioche sauce she had simmering on the stovetop, removed it from the heat source. "Whew," she breathed a sigh of relief, looking back at Wally where he diligently sliced several blumfruits. "Just in time."

The little utility droid swiveled his flattened disk-shaped head around and tooted questioningly at her, blinking his big blue photoreceptor.

"Because," she answered snidely, "if I'm going to do this, I'm going to do it right." Setting the saucepan aside, she knelt down in front of the oven, peering through the viewport at the slowly roasting loaf of sliced bantha meat. "That big lug in the cockpit's been forcing himself to resist me ever since we had our first run-in on the _Wheel_. Well I'll get him this time."

Opening the hatch, she reached in with a pair of insulated gloves and removed the tray. "I just have to try something new. That's the key to being a successful con artist Wally, look like what the mark expects to see. He won't be able to resist me this time."

Wally warbled something, then released a high pitched squeal of surprise as he missed a piece of fruit and the knife he was chopping with glanced off his gripping arm. Rocking back and forth on his wheeled legs, the poor droid looked as though he'd have a heart attack, if he had the requisite components.

"Be careful and watch what you're doing," Lynli chided, smothering the roast with the dioche sauce. "I don't want metal shavings in the fruit salad."

Wally blatted indignantly at her.

"It's not like you can feel pain, you know. Anyway, he says he wants a home he can settle down in; well just wait until he gets a load of what I have in store for him."

Setting the tray back in the oven, she stood up and turned to Wally. "Keep an eye on that," she instructed him. "I have to run down to the hold and fetch the dessert. Don't let anyone else in here, especially Buruk, got it?"

As Wally whistled affirmatively, Lynli slipped out the aft door and made her way down to the cargo hold. Pushing a crate aside, she pried open a bulkhead panel, revealing a hidden compartment where she kept her most personal belongings.

Something clanged on the catwalk behind her and she jumped, releasing a startled yelp as she spun around. Standing frozen in the hatchway to the starboard shuttle were Ganhuff and Maalku, looking very guilty. "What are you doing?" Lynli demanded

"Nothing," the doctor insisted, his eyes wide and showing the slightest tinge of blue around the edges. "What are you doing?"

Lynli's cheeks flushed as she remembered how she was dressed. The apron she wore practically screamed "housewife". "Nothing," she snapped.

"So… if none of us are doing anything, it's safe to say we never saw each other?" Ganhuff suggested, grabbing hold of Maalku's shoulder and backing slowly into the shuttle.

"Right," Lynli agreed, turning back to the hidden compartment and grabbing what she came for. "Never saw a thing." As the shuttle hatch closed, she resealed the panel and slid the crate back into place, hurrying back up to the galley before anyone else could stumble upon her.

###

It wasn't long before Ganhuff and Maalku were strolling along Nar Shaddaa's upper glidewalks, weaving their way through the pedestrian traffic. "Ah, the Smuggler's Moon," the doctor said as he clapped a hand on his companion's shoulder. "Vertical City, my kind of town."

Ancient, yellowed glowlamps and gaudy neon signs shone down on them as they crossed an enclosed skyway between megablocks. In the skylanes outside, airspeeders wove through the night, specks of light arranged in rows flashing overhead to replace the invisible stars above. The warm, stagnant air smelled of mildew and the mingling odors of a thousand alien species.

"No weapons," a well-dressed guard ordered gruffly as they passed through the checkpoint entrance to the upscale hotel-casino proclaiming itself the Stellar Chariot.

Surrendering his blaster into a bin, Ganhuff was handed a claim slip and allowed to pass into the main hall. Pausing to survey his surroundings, he thought, _Not too shabby…_ The brief atrium opened out to a balcony overlooking the gaming room, a huge complex of sabacc tables, jubilee wheels, view screens, pazaak tables, chance cube pits, and rows upon rows of electronic credit games stretching to the limit of his vision.

Licking his lips, the doctor stuck his thumbs in his belt and turned to see what was taking Maalku so long. What he saw nearly made his heart skip a beat and he rushed in to defuse the situation. The Findsman had piled a staggering amount of weaponry in one of the storage bins but several large guards surrounded him as he menacingly brandished his staff, creating an uproar at the casino entrance. "Uh, what seems to be the problem?" he asked the man who had ushered him through the checkpoint.

"Your friend refuses to turn over his weapon," the guard explained as his fellows tried to tighten the noose on the little insectoid. Maalku responded by gracefully twirling the shockprod over his head, then spinning, dragging the forked end along the floor and kicking up a shower of sparks at their feet.

Nervously clearing his throat, Ganhuff clasped his hands at the small of his back and called out, "I say, Maalku, what do you think you're doing?"

"These men thought to take my staff from me," he buzzed indignantly. "I did not pass through the rigors of becoming _janwuine_ to let the first one foolish enough to try, take it from me." He made another threatening gesture with the staff toward the nearest guard who immediately ducked back out of range.

Ganhuff forced a hearty chuckle and took the guard he'd spoken to aside and, after explaining the staff held great personal and spiritual significance and paying a hefty bribe, they were allowed to pass into the casino proper unmolested. As they rode down to the gaming room in a transparisteel turbolift, the doctor hissed, "Next time just give them the damn staff. You nearly got us thrown out."

"Maalku did not mean to cause a problem," the Gand insisted, casting his multifaceted eyes down at the floor, "but the shockprod staff is a sacred weapon to my people. Maalku could not risk losing it if we should have to make a hasty exit."

Ganhuff just cocked a confused eyebrow at his companion, then turned a hungry gaze out onto the vast gaming room. "Well start meditating, friend, because we've already got losses to recoup."

"Very well," Maalku replied. "I shall take a seat at the bar and peer into the mist while you work your blue-eyed magic at the sabacc table. Once I receive the insight you require, I shall signal you to move on to the jubilee wheel."

"Agreed," Ganhuff said, adjusting the cufflinks on his shimmersilk shirt and smoothing down the wrinkles in his silver cerlin waistcoat. As the turbolift touched down, he combed fingers through his curly brown hair and they stepped off into casino, going their separate ways.

###

Everything was ready. The galley was cleaned and dinner had been set about the table at the room's center, elegantly arranged according to memory from when she had been owned by a wealthy baron. She'd even programmed a glowlamp to flicker erratically, mimicking the flame of a candle at the center of the arrangement. Now Lynli took a moment to admire her image in the mirror before sending Wally off the fetch the guest of honor.

She wore an elegant bustle gown made of iridescent indigo taffeta that shimmered and sparkled with her every movement. A low, rounded neckline edged with black lace accentuated her bosom and the skirt hugged her hips, forcing her to take small, swift steps. A beaded black choker necklace adorned her slender neck and a black lace headdress wrapped around her sensuous lekku. _Lynli, old girl, you've really outdone yourself this time_, she thought with a smile.

"Something wrong with your droid?" Buruk called out to her from down the corridor. "He just rolled right into the cockpit while I was taking a nap and started whistling and spinning his head around all crazy-like."

She could hear his boot spurs clicking against the deck as he approached, heralding his fully-armored state. _Oh well, I supposed that passes for classy attire among Mandalorians_, she sighed inwardly.

Clasping her hands before her, she turned as he entered. Facing him, she smiled sweetly and said, "Hi Buruk. Sorry about Wally, but I asked him to go get you for me."

Buruk cocked his head to one side, jaw working as he surveyed the elaborate dinner setup. "Looks like you've been busy," he said. "What's the occasion?"

"Oh, no occasion," she insisted, motioning for him to have a seat at the head of the table. "I just wanted to show you how much I appreciate you letting me stay on like you have." She took his plate and speared a section of the bivoli tempari she'd prepared, ensuring he got plenty of the tasty dioche sauce with it. "I hope you like it," she added, spooning some of the blumfruit salad beside the bantha meat and placing a few almond-kwevvu crisp-munchies that Squibs were so fond of alongside it.

He took the plate from her and waited until she had gotten her own helping before digging in. _Well, well, he has some manners after all._ "How is it?" she asked intently, honestly wondering how well she stood in the culinary department.

"Good," he replied enthusiastically around a mouthful of tender meat. "Great," he amended after swallowing.

_Okay, so maybe he still needs some work, but hey, all men do._ Aloud, she said, "I hope this makes up for some of the trouble I've caused you."

Taking a sip from his glass of blossom wine, Buruk said, "I forgave you for all that a long time ago. Really, I don't think I could have gotten this far without you."

For a while they ate on in silence. "Do you like the dress?" Lynli asked.

Buruk hesitated, his cheeks reddening as he looked her up and down. "It looks…" he began, no doubt searching his Basic vocabulary for something appropriate; Lynli had figured out some of his language and knew that words like "delicate" were generally considered insulting. "Nice," he finished. "You look very nice."

Finishing up, Lynli stood, smoothing out her dress, and said, "Just you wait." Stepping around behind him, she placed her hands on his armored shoulders. "I've got a special desert prepared just for you."

His eyes narrowed. "_Special_ desert?" he asked suspiciously.

"That's right," she replied, letting one of her lekku slip off her shoulder and playfully tickle the back of his neck with the tip. "One I've been saving especially for you."

"You haven't changed a bit Lynli."

He stood, pulling away from her grip and turning away. "What," she began.

"This was just another one of your shameless seduction games," he continued, cutting her off. "I really started to think there was more to you than this. I guess I was wrong." Without another word, he marched out of the galley, leaving her all alone.

Lynli was speechless. She hung her head in defeat, fighting back tears. _He thinks that's all there is to me?_ she thought bitterly, clenching her fists at her sides. _He wouldn't even let me explain. Well I'll show him. I'll show him what he's missing out on!_

###

"The time is now, Blue-Eyed Thernbee," Maalku buzzed in Ganhuff's ear, the vocoder modulated low so only the doctor could hear.

"Well gentle-beings," Ganhuff smiled, raking in his chips, "fortune's smile fades eventually, so I think I'll quit while I'm ahead. Good evening then." Standing up and backing away, he followed the Gand toward the jubilee wheels, idly counting his winnings.

"Which one?" he muttered as he tallied over twenty-five thousand-worth.

"The very center wheel, with the Cerean gamemaster," Maalku replied, carrying his staff as a mere walking stick.

"You've seen the winning numbers?" Ganhuff pressed, wanting to be absolutely certain.

"Maalku has seen it all," the Gand insisted.

"Ladies and gentlemen please place your bets," the gamemaster requested of the gathered players as they approached.

The jubilee wheel consisted of a giant playing wheel with the numbers zero through one hundred spaced evenly around its circumference in random locations and with alternating colors. Bets were placed on the number or color a player believed the wheel's indicator would land on. Some cheaters tried to influence what the winning outcome would be by interfering with the machine's programming. With any luck, the Gand's system would prove far more difficult to spot.

"Fifty-three, black," Maalku whispered into Ganhuff's ear.

The doctor took a seat at the wheel and laid his chips down on the table. "I'll put a thousand on fifty-three," he told the gamemaster, who raked in the credits and placed a marker on the designated number.

"Ladies and gentlemen, betting is now closed," the Cerean informed the group of players and spectators. "No more bets, please." With great showmanship, he then set the wheel to spinning. Round and round it went, the numbers flashing by the indicator with whirlwind speed.

Eventually the wheel's inertia began to slow to a crawl before finally settling on a winning number. "Fifty-three, black," the Cerean announced. Handing over Ganhuff's winnings with a bow of his elongated head, he added, "Your chips, sir."

Ganhuff raked them in with a smile.

"Eighteen, red," Maalku whispered.

"Another thousand on eighteen," the doctor announced to the gamemaster, who eagerly scooped up the proffered chips and laid down the marker.

Once all bets were placed, the Cerean again recited, "Ladies and gentlemen, betting is now closed. No more bets, please."

Again the wheel spun, each number whizzing by faster than the eye could follow until finally landing once more as predicted. "Eighteen, red," the gamemaster declared, handing over Ganhuff's chips.

The more he won, the more sentients he attracted to him, watching and cheering, marveling at his incomparable luck. _This town loves a winner_, he thought brightly.

After nearly an hour the Findsman leaned over Ganhuff's shoulder and whispered, "I believe we should leave now."

"We've got a good thing going here," Ganhuff replied, sipping an Alderaanian martini. "Haven't you seen the next set of numbers?"

The Gand lowered his gaze, tightening his grip on his staff, and answered, "Maalku has seen. The wheel shall stop on one hundred."

A wide, gleeful grin split the doctor's features; the odds that the jubilee wheel would stop on one hundred were so astronomical that the payoff would be enormous. Shoving a mountain of chips forward on the table, he declared, "Put it all on one hundred."

A collective intake of breath issued from the gathered observers. Had he gone mad? Didn't he know he was throwing his credits away? Ganhuff's smile only widened as the Cerean gamemaster eyed him sharply, scooping up his chips and placing the marker on the one hundred square.

"Ladies and gentlemen, betting is now closed," he recited. "No more bets please." Again, he spun the wheel and a hush fell over the crowd as they pressed forward, gluing their eyes on the one hundred as it flashed by again and again with blinding speed.

Maalku squeezed Ganhuff's shoulder like a vise, his three fingers digging into the human's shoulder. He could hear the insectoid's mouth parts clicking nervously behind his breath mask. Had he lied about seeing and simply guessed at the winning number?

Casinos had always been places of overwhelming emotion. Ganhuff could feel Maalku's nervousness and the gamemaster's suspicion emanating in steady pulses; several members of the audience projected erratic feelings of hope and excitement. It was all he could do to maintain his composure; he simply closed his eyes and breathed slowly through his nose, forcing calm into every breath. His hands trembled, and for a moment his doctor's mind felt a moment of intense shame at that.

His eyes snapped open again as the gamemaster announced, "One hundred. One hundred is the winner." As the crowd cheered, whistled, and applauded, Ganhuff could feel his partner sag ever-so-slightly.

Just then a large hand fell heavily on his shoulder. "You need to come with me, sir," a gruff voice said in a low tone.

Ganhuff turned in his seat, the hand remaining solidly in place, and looked up into the impassive face of a man in a tailored suit, the sort of professional intimidator employed by casinos or gangsters throughout the galaxy. "Who, me?" he asked innocently.

The tough guy didn't waste any time. He grabbed up a handful of the doctor's shirt and hauled him to his feet. Ganhuff released an indignant yelp at being manhandled so and cried out, "You can't do this to me, you bloody oaf! I'm an honest player; I was just on a lucky streak that's all!"

If the suit was going to dispute his claim, he never got the chance. With a convulsive twitch, his hair stood on end before he toppled to the floor, unconscious, landing right on top of Ganhuff. Straining to push the man's deadweight off of his chest, the doctor saw Maalku brandishing his shockprod staff. "Now we must leave," he buzzed.

"I heartily agree," Ganhuff replied, surging to his feet and grabbing up handfuls of chips. With his pockets filled to bulging, he dashed after his companion at a hurried pace, trying to appear nonchalant and thanking his lucky stars he'd bribed that guard into letting Maalku keep his weapon. He could sense malice approaching from every direction as his eyes darted around the crowded game room. Grabbing Maalku's shoulder, he yanked him toward a bare, nondescript door. "Fire escape," he said, jerking his head in their path's direction.

Maalku stood watch while Ganhuff tried to nonchalantly open the door. "We have company," the Gand informed him as he spotted several guards approaching from every direction.

"Got it!" the doctor exclaimed as the door slid open with a hiss. Together they ducked through the opening and found themselves in a poorly lit parking garage. "Come on," Ganhuff said, motioning for Maalku to follow as he trotted down the rows of parked airspeeders, footfalls echoing through the cavernous space. "I can try to hotwire one."

"Make it fast please."

It wasn't long before he had an air speeder roaring to life, and not a moment too soon; just as Maalku climbed into the passenger seat, they were spotlighted by a pair of headlights. Ganhuff redlined the accelerator, careening through the crowded garage, zipping around tight corners, and throwing up sparks at the slightest brush with another vehicle.

Smashing through the exit barricade, they zipped into Nar Shaddaa's upper traffic lanes, nearly ramming a large freighter. Three speeders were in hot pursuit, their passengers leaning through their windows and taking pot shots at them. Blaster bolts spanged and ricocheted off their vehicle at odd angles as Ganhuff through them into a sharp turn that hurled them against the side of the speeder.

"I told you we should leave!" Maalku derided him, no hint of self-deprecation in his artificial voice whatsoever. "I told you I had seen everything, but you had to pander to your own greed!"

"What can I say?" Ganhuff replied with a noncommittal shrug, pushing the airspeeder into a sharp dive into lower traffic. "I'm weak."

They whipped their heads around at the sound of an explosion behind them and saw that one of their pursuers had collided with another vehicle and was now plummeting like a stone toward Nar Shaddaa's lowest reaches, skipping between buildings. The remaining two stayed hot on their heels, still firing their blasters.

"So, Mister Prophet, have any more insights you'd like to share?" Ganhuff asked, juking down an alley.

"Maalku only saw up to when the big man tried to take you away," Maalku answered, rummaging through the airspeeder's various cubbies for a hidden blaster or other weapon he could use on their pursuers.

"All right then, now I don't feel so bad for doing this," the doctor replied, slamming on the brakes. He and the Gand were thrown forward against their restraints as the two speeders rushed up on either side of them. Ganhuff stomped down on the accelerator, keeping side by side with his attackers as they lined up shots on him. Suddenly jerking the controls to the right, he slammed against one of the speeders, the sound of crunching metal grating against his ear drums. The driver panicked, jerking away from Ganhuff, and accidentally smashed into an adjacent building column. The vehicle blossomed into a bright fireball in Ganhuff's rear viewport.

The last airspeeder remained alongside them. The Rodian in the passenger seat aimed his blaster pistol and fired, spider-webbing the transparisteel beside Ganhuff's head, causing him to duck instinctively. Before the doctor could try the same trick twice, the vehicle shot forward and a pair of blaster bolts struck the windscreen, similarly cracking the surface and obscuring Ganhuff's view. Swerving sporadically from side to side, Ganhuff tried desperately to avoid another hit.

Just then, Maalku unfastened his safety harness and jabbed his staff forward into the windscreen, shattering the transparisteel. As the insectoid climbed forward onto the airspeeder's hood, Ganhuff couldn't believe his eyes. "What the hell are you doing?" he shouted at his companion, struggling to hold the controls steady so he didn't shake the Gand loose.

Without a word, Maalku leapt, arms outstretched, across the cavernous distance separating the two vehicles. He landed atop the leading speeder's boot and scuttled on all fours up onto the roof. Its occupants tried to lean out and shoot him but he danced nimbly away from the deadly energy lancing toward his body, twirling his shockprod staff in sweeping arcs that slapped the weapons away. Finally, the Findsman tumbled forward onto the speeder's hood. With incredible strength, his fist shot forward, and pierced the vehicle's hull. He must have struck something in the engine, for the hole he left began belching thick black smoke and the airspeeder started losing altitude. With a tip of his conical hat, the Gand back-flipped gracefully back onto the hood of Ganhuff's airspeeder while their attackers stared dumbfounded.

###

Lynli was waiting in the doctor's room, sitting on the edge of the bed when Ganhuff walked in with a confused look on his face. Clearing his throat, he asked, "Lynli, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" He then added, "That's a lovely dress you're wearing." She hadn't changed since dinner and still wore the iridescent gown.

She'd been drinking since Buruk had snubbed her, to help get her into the mood, and she gave him a small, inviting smile and replied, "Hey Ganhuff, what took you so long? I've missed you."

He smiled rakishly. "You don't say. Well, our insectoid companion and I were just off on a little adventure."

She leaned forward to give him a better view of her cleavage while her lekku twined sensually about her shoulders. "I made dinner, but I think we should just skip right to the dessert." She winked at him coyly. _Time to give you what all men really want_, she added bitterly to herself.

His smile widened as he undid the top fasteners of his shirt. She stood and took over where he'd started, fiercely pressing her lips to his. He put his arms around her and set to work on opening her dress as she ran her slender hands along his bare back. She pulled away slightly, nibbling his lower lip, and pulled him toward the bed.

_It's your lucky day_, she thought as he disrobed her. _Even if it means I have to waste my time with you, I _will_ get that jerk to know what he turned down._

"Are you enjoying yourself?" he whispered into her ear as the sleeping pallet shook with their movements.

"Oh, yes," Lynli moaned, laying her head back so he couldn't see her roll her eyes. He was just another mark she was using to get what she was after.

Later, she slipped quietly out into the corridor and leaned against the wall, staring miserably at the ceiling. _Stupid_, she thought, beating her skull against the bulkhead. _Did I really think that would accomplish anything? How could I be so senseless?_ She sank to the floor and curled up hugging her legs. Buruk probably wouldn't want anything to do with her now; she'd merely proven him right. She really _wanted_ to change but somehow nothing ever went the way she planned. Now she just sat there, hating herself for becoming another notch on the doctor's belt as she pressed her face into her knees and a pair of tears trickled over her cheeks.


	16. Funky Town Part 1

One year ago; Galidraan

_The air was crisp and cool, stinging Buruk's nostrils with every breath as he marched with his squad back to camp. Myles and his troops had taken the lead and he could hear their boots crunching in the wet snow ahead above the common sounds that permeated the coniferous forest; Jango had gone alone to collect their pay from the planetary governor. That was Jango, always doing things on his own; though a good friend and more-than-capable leader, he'd made it clear he relied on no one but himself ever since Jaster died._

_Upon arrival, everyone set about the task of breaking camp and moving out. Nobody had an assigned job per se, they just knew what needed to be done and naturally did it; that was the Mandalorian way, no rigid structure, no ranks or titles, a soldier just did what needed doing. Buruk was good with weapons, cleaning, repairing, upgrading, and that skill had won him the position as the Mandalorians' unofficial armorer. While everyone else went to work breaking down tents or loading equipment onto the Q-Carriers, he found a secluded spot to sit down and field strip his blasters before they brought him their own._

_As he worked to scrub the carbon scoring free of the energy cell contact points, he could hear his comrades laughing and joking, telling stories of battles past and bragging about their accomplishments on their latest job. The governor had been beset by a rebellion he wanted eliminated quickly and efficiently, so he called in the _Mando'ade_. In typical fashion, the fight had been short and violent, the insurrectionists unable to stand against the battle-hardened Mandalorian warriors. They never had a chance._

_Just then, a shout rang out over the camp. "_O'r'olaror_!" Incoming!_

_It was followed by a deeper, more aristocratic voice that declared in Basic, "Mandalorians, I am Master Dooku." Everyone turned to see a group of twenty _Jetiise_ standing abreast of each other on a ridge at the edge of the camp, lightsabers ignited and humming in the still winter air. Their spokesman, a tall gaunt human with jet black hair, continued, "You stand accused of murder. Surrender now and we will ensure that you are treated fairly."_

_Murder? How did the _di'kute_ come by that one? They'd been paid to put down the insurrection; this wasn't the old glory days of Mandalorians crusading across the galaxy just to pick a fight with the _Jetiise_._

_At the man's side, a blonde woman added, "But fight us, and we will bring swift justice!" Pompous little Jedi princess._

_In an instant, Jango slid down into the camp, ordering, "Mandalorians, open fire!" Drawing his blasters, he added, "And shoot the loudmouth first!"_

_A firestorm erupted, needles of energy scything across the Jedi's position as soldiers scrambled to find cover. Buruk's heart slammed against his chest as he scrambled to reassemble his weapon and join the fray. "Don't let them close!" he heard Jango shout over the whine and stutter of automatic fire. Blaster bolts sizzled past him, superheating the snow into steam where they struck as the Jedi redirected their shots right back at them with deadly accuracy. He heard men cry out, victims of their own attack._

_"Cease fire!" Jango screamed over the din. "Cease fire!" The shots slowly petered out as the Jedi held their ground, glaring down at the armored men stoically. "Chuck your blasters!" the Mandalore ordered. "Switch to projectile weapons!"_

_Rockets and grenades shrieked across the open space separating the two forces, throwing up brilliant fireballs where they exploded. The Jedi scattered to minimize casualties while others threw up their hands and pushed incoming missiles aside with their power. Buruk popped out from behind cover, fired off a wrist rocket and watched just long enough to see it detonate at a Jedi's feet, throwing him through the air like a rag doll, cloak aflame, to land in a twisted, broken heap._

_With their ranks broken, they charged the camp, hoping to get inside the Mandalorians' range. Buruk ordered the nearest soldiers to rally to his position. "Gormer, Davrel, Kex, form up!" he shouted, reloading his gauntlet launcher. "Shift your _shebse_!"_

_Looking around, he spotted Gormer running to join him, only to be thrown off his feet by some unseen force hurling him sideways into the snow. Picking himself up, the soldier clutched his rifle to his chest and continued on, favoring one leg until he clattered down behind a crate at Buruk's side. "Think my ankle's twisted," he hissed, leaning out to snap off a few shots. "Maybe broken."_

_"Man up, soldier," Buruk grunted, spotting Davrel trying to fire his wrist rocket point blank into a Jedi's chest. The robed Twi'lek was somehow able to twist his body away at the last second so that the deadly missile streaked harmlessly past him. He then swung his blue blade backhanded through Davrel's legs, slicing them clean off at the knees. As the Mandalorian toppled over, the Jedi put an end to his screaming by stabbing straight through his chest._

_Shabla _durasteel armor_, Buruk thought. Unlike _beskar_, it did nothing to stop a lightsaber, as poor Davrel's spirit could attest. Worse, most warriors didn't even know they were wearing it. Aloud, he wondered, "Where in Hell is Kex?"_

_"Find him," Gormer replied. "I'll hold here."_

_Buruk hesitated. He couldn't just leave a man behind, but he couldn't just sit there and do nothing while their comrades died at the hands of the _Jetiise_. Making up his mind, he handed Gormer his stash of grenades. "Surprise the spoon-benders that aren't looking," he ordered, then ran off to join the fight, firing as he went._

_More explosions ripped through the camp as rockets were fired in all directions, the Jedi having surrounded them by now. He heard Jango shout, "Get airborne. Give me some cover!" as he charged headlong at the Jedi's leader, still standing atop the ridge and watching over the massacre. Myles launched himself into the air, carried on a thick plume of exhaust from his jetpack, and fired down on the Jedi in the Mandalore's path, making himself an inviting target. At his leader's direction, one Jedi leapt and when he landed, two halves of Myles' body struck the ground._

_In the thick of the battle, Buruk aimed and fired, aimed and fired, like a machine, doing was he was trained to do, what he was _born_ to do. When his blasters went dry, he tossed them aside, raised his right gauntlet at a pair of defending Jedi, and unleashed a tongue of fire that enveloped them, setting their robes ablaze and melting the snow all around them. _Deflect that_, he thought grimly. Another Jedi stood over a fallen comrade, ready to strike the killing blow, when Buruk ejected the vibrodagger from his left gauntlet and drove it into the man's kidney. From the corner of his eye he saw Jango engaging another Jedi in hand to hand combat, cracking open his skull with a rock._

_As Buruk spun about to find a new target, green light flashed across his vision and his world was overtaken by searing pain, after which he knew nothing but darkness. When he came to, he was blind in his right eye and a long vertical slash cut through that side of his helmet. He was otherwise unharmed and completely alone._

_Packing snow against the cauterized wound on his face and holding it in place with a dressing, he looked around at the carnage. The camp was destroyed. Dismembered bodies littered the ground, all Mandalorian, staining the pristine white landscape red. Not one Jedi lay among them. _Monsters_, he thought, falling to his knees. _They slaughtered them all and just left them here.

_After several minutes indulging his grief, he stood and searched the bodies, replenishing his armament and identifying the remains so he would know who to remember at the end of each day. He found Gormer scattered around the place he'd left him, a scorch mark on the crate they'd taken cover behind testifying to how he'd gone. The Jedi must have assumed Buruk was dead or dying of his injury. Only three men were missing: Jango, Silas, and Kex. Silas had seen most of the battle through before he'd been incapacitated and surrendered and Jango was still fighting when Buruk had gone down. But where had Kex been the whole time?_

_In Buruk's mind, there was only one possibility. He'd betrayed them, allowed them to be trapped and annihilated. Clenching his fists in impotent rage, the last Mandalorian to leave Galidraan swore Kex would pay. And so would the Jedi._

###

The Mandalorian heaved a sigh as he stared out the _Cuun'yaim_'s forward viewport at the hypnotic swirl of hyperspace, feeling calmed by the kaleidoscoping colors illuminating the dim cockpit in a constantly shifting light display. Somewhere along the path, he decided, he'd lost sight of his goal and began to doubt his own heart.

Buruk had been so hot-blooded then, a 3assif let off its chain and lashing out at anyone at the slightest provocation. He hurt a lot of people, driven to rage by his grief, and made more than a few enemies. He'd calmed considerably since, becoming more self-controlled as he attracted others who, like him, didn't really seem to know where they were headed.

How much had he changed? He'd been a bounty hunter at first, but somehow his own acquisitions wound up serving on his crew, and now he himself was a wanted man. How had he come to this, drifting aimlessly between the stars, living one illicit cargo at a time? It had been so clear in the beginning, acquire credits and ship, get information, and hunt them all down like dogs. But nothing in the galaxy made sense anymore.

Buruk rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyeballs and sat up. He needed to regain his focus. His encounter with the Death Watch on Concord Dawn had returned his thoughts to crimson snow. He owed it to Jango, to Jaster, and especially to the _aruetyc_ Kex, to seek retribution. However, it wouldn't only be his life he'd be risking and, try as he might to hide it, he cared about the safety of those close to him.

The ship groaned as he dropped it out of hyperspace, complaining against the sudden shift in inertia. The other crewmembers would wonder what had happened, so he keyed the shipboard comlink and announced, "All hands to the galley. We need to talk."

###

The galley was quiet; Lynli, Ganhuff, and Maalku sat around the dining table waiting to hear what the captain had to say. They'd all been jarred by the sudden drop out of hyperspace and they wanted answers. Lynli leaned heavily on the table, her arms folded across each other, as her heart raced in anticipation. Had Buruk found out about her stupid act of childishness? She hoped not. Even the doctor avoided her gaze, turning away shamefully. At least he didn't seem to be gloating about his conquest.

As Buruk strode in, Lynli felt her cheeks burn and she dropped her gaze to the tabletop, forcing the embarrassment away. He looked haggard and scruffy, like he hadn't slept in days, almost like Ganhuff but healthier. The dark circles beneath his eyes weren't so pronounced and his skin had a ruddier complexion to it. At least he wasn't glit-biting too.

He remained standing but leaned against one of the counters, crossing his arms over his chest as he glanced around at the gathered crew. "All right," he began, "here's the story. I've been putting off an obligation I have for too long. It's going to be dangerous and I can't take you into harm's way against your will."

"It occurs to me, we've been in harm's way the whole time we've known each other," Ganhuff replied dryly.

Buruk nodded. "This is different and especially dangerous for you, Doc. I need to go to Coruscant."

Everyone turned to look at the doctor. Ganhuff's face fell, and then his eyes went blank as though his brain had been rebooted. He was wanted by the Republic for twenty-three counts of manslaughter, something he had the spice to thank for. He'd run before they could arrest him and the Judicials placed a large price on his head. Now Buruk proposed to take him right into the Republic's heart. At least he'd been honest about it.

Lynli decided to speak up first. "Why do you need to go to Coruscant?"

"I have names," he answered, knowing she understood what he was talking about. "But I need faces and locations."

"Any information broker on a dozen worlds could get you that," she declared. She wanted him to give up this foolish quest. How could he take on the Jedi and hope to win? He'd taken one by surprise on Pelorum but he'd been alone and inexperienced.

Buruk shook his head. "Not reliable enough. I need it straight from the source."

Lynli's golden eyes widened. "You don't mean—"

"I do," he cut her off. "And I need your help to do it."

"This is insane," she said, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "This isn't some bank or a casino here. You're talking about infiltrating the Jedi Temple and slicing into its archives. It can't be done."

He held her eyes with his steady emerald gaze and in an even voice he said, "You can do it." He then nodded to the little utility droid by her side, W4-L3. "With Wally there, you can slice into anything."

Now it was her turn to be stared at. Did he really have faith in her? Or was he just telling her what she wanted to hear so she'd agree to help him? She couldn't be sure, but his eyes, even the artificial one, held all the sincerity in the galaxy. Lynli was a professional con artist and she could spot a fake out a kilometer away; Buruk really did believe she was the only one who could help him. "How do we get inside?" she asked.

"Do you still have your old robes?" he asked in reply.

"Even if I look like a Jedi, they'll know I can't use the Force. They can sense that sort of thing, remember?"

"We're going to be smack in the middle of the single thickest concentration of that Force stuff in the whole galaxy," he reasoned. "It probably all bleeds together; muddies the water."

"The Tortoise speaks true," Maalku said abruptly from across the table. "On Coruscant, the mists swirl into a thick, impenetrable fog that blankets the city. They will be satisfied by your word alone."

Lynli chewed her lower lip. "Fine," she said at last. "I'm in."

"What do I have to do with all this?" Ganhuff asked carefully.

"Nothing," Buruk answered. "You can stay on the ship if you want. In fact, I'd recommend it. As for Maalku, we're going to need you along to lend a little legitimate foresight to this operation, just in case."

The Gand nodded his chitinous head in acceptance. "Maalku will do as the Great Tortoise asks."

Despite their assurances, Lynli stared down at the tabletop. She had a bad feeling about this.

###

Master Nurt Ulasac sat with folded legs in one of the Jedi Temple's meditative gardens. The Room of a Thousand Fountains held many such places, filled with exotic flora from across the galaxy and the soft rush of waterfalls flowing into gently trickling creeks that teemed with brightly colored fish. Soft blue moss grew along the stones lining the stream and the meditation area comprised a stone bench on a patch of chocolate brown earth where the cobblestone path that wound through the gardens ended. The entire Room was a small patch of nature that seemed so alien on a world of duracrete and transparisteel like Coruscant.

Master Ulasac had opted to sit on the ground rather than the bench, knowing full well the Temple students would quietly laugh about how the seat of his trousers was dirty. There were certainly more important things for a Jedi to concern himself with than his laundry, such as where he stood in the Force.

Ulasac often imagined the Force as being a great scale on which the whole of the universe balanced. Most beings found themselves in the middle, precariously perched at the fulcrum and needing only a little push to slip into darkness. These same people also enjoyed the relative ease of returning to neutrality or light that such minute shifts provided. The Jedi, on the other hand, lent their weight to one far end of the scale, struggling for centuries to maintain balance or bring the universe into light. Their ancient enemies, the long-extinct Sith, occupied the opposite end, wanting to forever topple everything into darkness.

Ulasac slowly inhaled through his nose, held his breath, and let it quickly escape his mouth. For the past year he felt as though a shadow were creeping over him. He'd been a part of a taskforce sent to Galidraan at the Republic's request to save political activists being slaughtered by a group of Mandalorian raiders. When they'd arrived, they found evidence that even women and children hadn't been spared. Such monstrous acts by those who would drag the universe down into darkness could not go ignored.

Master Dooku, the taskforce's leader, ordered the Mandalorians to stand down, but the savages simply opened fire. The fight had been tragic, decimating both sides. The Mandalorians were all but wiped out and of the twenty Jedi who responded to the Galidraan crisis, only nine survived. The dark side had clearly won that day.

Dooku, for whatever reason, had taken an interest in the Mandalorians' leader and took it upon himself to learn just what had occurred on Galidraan. He believed, falsely in Ulasac's opinion, that the planet's governor had manipulated the entire scenario, using the Jedi to annihilate the warriors for him. The evidence against the Mandalorians had certainly been circumstantial but Ulasac would still bet his right lekku they were responsible.

Then, only a few months later, Ulasac's own Padawan, Jomel Tunray, who had accompanied him on the mission to Galidraan and was subsequently knighted, had been abducted from his mission to Pelorum by persons unknown. A Jedi imposter identifying herself as Kazmer'ra had arrived only a few days before Jomel and then disappeared around the same time, ruling out any possibility in the master's mind other than foul play. Jomel's body was later recovered on Tatooine, showing signs that he had been severely tortured to death by someone who knew just what he was doing, confirming his suspicions. Another victory for the dark side.

Ulasac continued his controlled breathing, fervently hoping the Force would guide him to some insight about Jomel's killer and possibly deliver him into his hands. Justice had to be served. Seeing the boy's mangled corpse left out on the edge of the Dune Sea had wracked his heart; the newly ordained knight had deserved better. An invisible weight settled down over his chest as he remembered, threatening to crush him. Revenge was not the Jedi way, but Master Ulasac wished to someday find the murderer under his blade.

###

As soon as the _Cuun'yaim_ hit realspace, Buruk oriented the craft toward the glittering jewel of a world below. The lights of Coruscant shone on the planet's night side like sparkling gold veins crisscrossing each other in wild patterns that cast their surroundings in deeper shadow. As they passed Centax-I, the nearest of Coruscant's four moons, Buruk was awed by the majesty of the galaxy's capital.

Guiding them through the atmosphere, he decided to speak up. "Wow," he breathed, gazing out across the towering skyscrapers over a sea of light. Ships and speeders of all sizes and descriptions flowed in endless rivers that stretched through the air to the glowing horizon. The only thing remotely like it he'd seen had been Nar Shaddaa but this far outshone the Smuggler's Moon in its grandeur.

At the copilot's station beside him, Lynli snorted. "Country boy," she chuckled. It sounded uneasy, almost forced, to Buruk, not the carefree teasing she usually threw his way. "You act like this is your first trip to the 'Big City.'"

"First time on Coruscant," he admitted, turning to face her. "You've been here before?"

"Yeah," she replied, her eyes narrowing while avoiding his gaze. "Except in the Core they have a different word for slaves: servants. Helps maintain the façade of civility."

Buruk cleared his throat uncomfortably at the darkness in her tone; he hadn't meant to open old wounds. Changing the subject, he nodded out the viewport and said, "That must be the Senate Dome, where all the people of the galaxy are interfered with equally."

Before she could reply, the comm unit pinged as an approaching ship hailed them. "Pilot of the _Firefly_-class transport… _Kun-yame_," the officious voice struggled with the Mando'a phrase, "your transponder matches a vessel reported stolen in our databanks. Proceed to the nearest landing pad and be ready to present license and registration."

"Stolen?" Buruk exclaimed, frowning as he spotted the pursuing ship on his aft sensors. It was a Variable Altitude Assault Transport, enforcement model, with red and blue lights flashing. "Figures that _di'kutla_ doctor won a _hot_ starship in a sabacc game!" He was half tempted to just leave Riscan for the police but the last thing any of them needed was trouble with the Coruscant Security Force.

"Only one thing to do," Lynli said, following his train of thought. "Strap yourselves in," she ordered through the shipboard comm.

Dialing up the throttle, Buruk shoved the control yoke forward, pushing the ship into a steep dive through the brightly lit canyons between megablocks. Lower traffic lanes shot past with blinding velocity, pilots startled by the madman streaking by with reckless abandon. A glance as the sensors told him that, sure enough, the VAAT/e was in hot pursuit, diving after them with gusto. To Lynli, he said, "Angle the deflector shields full aft; once we get below the important levels it'll only be a matter of time before they get clearance to open fire."

"Got it," she replied, flipping switches on her console. "Just don't Montross this one."

Buruk winced; that stung. He'd lost their previous ship, the _Bes'uliik_ in a battle against a _dar'manda_ bounty hunter named Montross. He hoped not to repeat that event any time soon.

After a few seconds flying straight down, Buruk yanked back on the control yoke hard, pulling them up level, and whipped around an intersection perpendicular to their previous route. They had to somehow lose their pursuer and disappear in the undercity to do what they came here for. They could worry about escaping Coruscant later.

The CSF ship came barreling around the corner, behind and slightly above them. "_Osik_, they're going to open fire," Buruk growled. From that angle they were in the perfect position to attack and incur minimum collateral damage to the surrounding buildings.

"Pilot of _Firefly_-class transport, you were warned," the comm hissed. The _Cuun'yaim _rattled as it too several hits and scarlet daggers lanced past their viewport with each near miss as Buruk side-slipped left and right, his jaw set in a grim line. As they rounded another bend, they could hear metal shriek as they scraped the edge of a building.

"Shields are down to eighty percent," Lynli reported as her hands flew over the console, rerouting power from the nonessential systems.

"Let's see just how gung-ho these cops are," Buruk muttered, pulling up into an oncoming traffic lane. At first the security ship's rapid fire assault tracked them, shaking the ship harder and scorching the hull with each hit, but it abruptly cut off once he'd mixed in with the civilians. Speeders and starships scattered before him, blaring their horns and flying off at random vectors to avoid a head-on collision. A YT-1300 freighter flashed by overhead bare centimeters above the viewport, causing Buruk and Lynli to instinctively duck in their seats.

"Are you crazy?" Lynli demanded. "Wait, scratch that, you're insane!"

"It's worked for me in the past," he shrugged, dodging around an oncoming speeder bus.

It seemed to be working this time as well. As it stayed hot on their heels, the VAAT/e ceased firing on them, desperately trying to weave around the onrushing traffic. A few ships sideswiped each other in the mad panic to avoid the high speed chase, swerving frantically all across the airways.

"Want to try something different?" Buruk asked as he kept his eyes glued on the speeders rushing headlong toward them.

"What do you have in mind?" Lynli asked with her hands locked in a death grip on the console as though letting go would launch her into orbit.

Buruk described the maneuver quickly, still side-slipping around traffic. "On my mark, cut in the repulsors," he ordered. "Now!" Killing their engines, the _Cuun'yaim_ began an uncontrolled fall, their momentum carrying them forward as Buruk brought the ship's nose up to compensate.

With the flick of a switch, Lynli cut in the repulsorlift coils, bouncing them up above the plane of traffic where, with another series of commands, she rotated the starboard engine around so that it fired against port, spinning them around so they reoriented facing the pursuing VAAT/e and the way they had come.

"Surprise," Buruk whispered as he kicked on the main drive and fired the sublight acceleration motor. The sudden jolt of the SLAM system crushed them into their seats as they blew past the CSF ship so fast Buruk barely got a glimpse of the dumbfounded look on the pilot's face. Shortly after they'd passed, an airspeeder clipped the security vehicle, shearing off its starboard wing. Sputtering hoarsely, the damaged vessel spun haphazardly downward, disappearing into Coruscant's duracrete canyons.

"That was totally insane," Lynli breathed at last as they rocketed down through the lower levels. "I can't believe that actually worked."

"Neither can I," Buruk replied. "Good job, by the way."

"Thanks. Nice flying Cap'n. Where to now?"

"Eastport," the Mandalorian answered, deactivating the SLAM. "We've got some shopping to do."

_TO BE CONTINUED…_


	17. Funky Town Part 2

"Expecting trouble?" Buruk asked, checking the charge on his blaster pistol as they paused just inside the ship's main airlock and waited for the ramp to lower. Deciding his Mandalorian armor would be too conspicuous, he'd opted for somewhat more conservative civilian attire: a pair of plain, black trousers; brown leather boots, one of which now concealed the ejectable vibrodagger from his gauntlet; and a simple, lightweight blue shirt. He looked every bit like a Rimmer just in from the frontier, in Ganhuff's opinion.

A light coating of cover-up from Lynli's treasure trove of con gimmicks disguised the tiny scars hatch marking his face and the glaring lightsaber wound over his false right eye; it had healed considerably over the past year, especially with the doctor's treatment, but was still far from fading. Ganhuff suspected the warrior didn't really want it to go away at all.

"No," Lynli answered innocently, shaking her head while she inspected her own weapon, the tips of her lekku twitching slightly. Ganhuff possessed a modest understanding of their hidden sign language from his time living on Coruscant and working among Twi'leks on a daily basis; he could read her nervousness and could further surmise the cause. "Just dressing for business," she continued, voice firm. To everyone's surprise, she was dressed more conservatively too, rather than in one of her more revealing outfits.

Only a few days ago she and the doctor had taken part in a late night liaison together; Ganhuff had just returned to the ship after a heart pounding adventure through Nar Shaddaa with the Gand Findsman, Maalku, to find her waiting in his quarters, practically throwing herself at him. He'd been laying on the charm for months and, riding the wave of his excitement, he readily gave in to her advances, thinking his luck had much improved.

Since that night, however, Ganhuff felt severe waves of self recrimination and shame emanating from her that spiked whenever Buruk was near. He didn't need a minor in psychology from the University of Coruscant Medical College to know her feelings of dishonor somehow involved the mercenary. He feared he'd made a terrible mistake, jeopardizing his own safety aboard the ship, and wisely chose to keep quiet about what had gone on between them. Who knew what Buruk was capable of if he decided to be angry about what the doctor had done? Maybe that was part of why they were on Coruscant in the first place, not just some mad attempt to break into the Jedi Temple.

Once the ramp touched down, Buruk and Lynli stepped out into the aging yellow light of the docking bay's overhead glowlamps, Maalku scuttling silently along behind them. Their first order of business was to acquire a speeder and the forged credentials they'd need to even get close to the Temple. Once they'd gotten their hands on those, it was a matter of finding disguises for Buruk and Maalku that would fool a Jedi up close. If they even got inside, then they'd worry about whether or not the Jedi could sense the difference.

Big if.

That left Ganhuff all alone aboard the ship with his drug-induced paranoia. _What was I thinking?_ he screamed at himself. He should have been able to tell something wasn't right the moment he stepped into his room, the way she just threw herself at him like that. He'd been so blinded by his vices he couldn't tell what was going on and that disturbed him deeply. What if it had been a matter of life and death? It very well may be if Buruk ever found out.

Regardless of what consequences might await him, Ganhuff decided he didn't like the person he'd become in the past two years he'd been on the run. There was a time in his life when the thought of killing another living being was more abhorrent to him than performing an autopsy on a cadaver deceased from space exposure. Spice, vice, and the constant threat of bounty hunters taking him away to face his crimes somehow changed that, so that now he could shoot a man and feel no regrets about it once the traumatic feelings of his death were past him.

Ganhuff suddenly got a distinct feeling of claustrophobia, as though the ship was closing in on him. He needed to get out of there, get some air. Throwing on a drab overcoat that practically dusted the floor, he scampered down the ramp; secured the ship; and wandered off into the city.

Eastport Docking Facility sprawled across several megablocks, its landing bays packed to overflowing while a constant stream of incoming and outgoing starships choked the skyways of Manarai Heights. Handling most of the civilian traffic on Coruscant, Eastport was both the oldest and busiest of the planet's three major spaceports and old tramp freighters were a common sight. A quick bribe to the port authority had secured them an out of the way dock on the lower levels where the _Cuun'yaim_ would escape notice as her crew passed into the city proper.

Carried away by glidewalks and turbolifts, Ganhuff found himself unconsciously meandering, not toward the Crimson Corridor as he would have expected his exotic tastes to have carried him, but rather in the direction of Galactic General Hospital. The ghosts of the past simply refused to stay buried.

###

"You all right?" Buruk whispered to his partner.

"Aside from my reluctance to go along with this scheme, I don't trust this guy," Lynli answered, keeping her voice low. They sat side by side in a booth far from the ring-shaped bar of a tapcafe called the Outlander Club in the Entertainment District; it was a flashy, neon-lit hive of scum and villainy at the upper edges of Lower Coruscant. Maalku stood silently several meters away, keeping his multifaceted eyes out for trouble. "We've been waiting nearly an hour."

They'd found an infochant in Eastport's cantina, the Spacer's Lounge, that offered—for a price—to set up a meeting between them and an expert slicer named Fahek. Not half an hour later, they received a comlink call instructing them to go to the Outlander Club on Vos Gesal Street. The nightclub catered to gamblers, con artists, spice dealers, and pros, and when they'd first entered, Buruk had expressed relief at not bringing Ganhuff along.

"You just don't seem like yourself lately," the Mandalorian replied, lifting his glass of _shig_ to his lips and taking a long sip, savoring the hot beverage's sweet citrus flavor. "You've barely said two words to me since…" He trailed off. "I'm sorry about the way I blew up at you before," he said in a rush, cheeks burning. "You come on pretty strong but that doesn't excuse the way I overreacted."

"Just stop," she snapped, staring intensely at the tabletop. "I mean, shut up and focus. You're supposed to be the muscle here; I don't want to have to rely on Maalku while you get all weepy." She had a look on her face that the Mandalorian could only interpret as barely checked fury.

Buruk's brow furrowed in confusion but further conversation was swiftly cut off by the appearance of a Snivvian sliding into the booth directly across the table from them. Wiping his large, upturned nose on a sleeve, he flicked beady black eyes between the two of them before settling his gaze on Buruk. Offering his hand, which had just served as a tissue, to shake, he introduced himself, "Savreen Fahek, slicer extraordinaire."

Buruk bravely took the snaggletoothed alien's hand and replied, "Corsati Selsyn and Aralin Okunn, potential customers."

Fahek waved over a waitress and gave them a toothy grin, asking, "Which is which?"

"All you need to know, friend, is what we need and which chancellors we've got on our credit notes," Buruk answered.

The Snivvian's grin widened and he said, "All right then, let's dicker. What can Savreen Fahek do for you?"

Here Lynli spoke up. "We need a civilian airspeeder, registered in our names, with landing clearance for the Temple Precinct, preferably in the hangars themselves."

Fahek nearly spit his drink across the nightclub. "The _Jedi_ Temple?" he hissed. Sitting up straight, his eyes darted around the club anxiously. "That's a new one. Are you CSF? Is this some kind of bust?"

"We just need you to get us in the door," Buruk insisted calmly. "And no, we're not CSF."

Flagging down a waitress, Fahek ordered, "Red dwarf, and make it a binary." Then, turning back to his customers, he shrugged his shoulders and replied, "What the hell, I like a challenge. Two hundred thousand, all up front."

"One twenty-five, half up front and the other half on delivery," Lynli countered.

After slamming down his drinks, the slicer said, "One fifty, a hundred up front, the rest on delivery." He then added, "And if you make it back out alive, tell your friends who was good enough to get you in."

"Deal."

###

One thousand stories tall divided into fifty wings, Galactic General Hospital was hardly impressive in its stature. As Ganhuff passed through the sliding transparisteel doors, he noted absently that they had remodeled the lobby since he'd been employed there. New slabs of black marble made up the floor and decorative columns ringed with exotic plants had been added. The once off-white walls had been replaced with warm burnt orange with imported wood paneling. Clearly the Board had been generous in its financing recently.

Sneaking past the receptionists' booth was simple; they had their hands full with patients checking themselves in and out and didn't want any more hassle than they needed. Ganhuff simply strolled past as if it were only natural while they were all busy. It took less then a minute for his muscles to remember the old habits, and he fell back into his old stride as though his nose were buried in a chart.

What was he doing here? Why was he risking capture just to visit his place of former employment? Did he really think it would bring him some sort of closure? No, he really didn't, he was just some drug-addled criminal with no conscious control over his own actions; it was pathetic. He was pathetic.

He found himself riding a gleaming white turbolift up several hundred floors to a scaled down model of the lobby's reception desk, staffed by the floor's duty nurse. She was a few years younger than Ganhuff, with wheat blonde hair tied back from her tired face. "Excuse me," he asked, clearing his throat, "I'm looking for Doctor Tunbaoth's office?"

Tugging absently at her blue scrubs as she filled out forms on her datapad, she pointed off in some vague direction and answered, "Down the corridor, take the third left, fifteenth door on the right."

Thanking her, he turned and followed her instructions, shuffling past open recovery rooms. Glancing in, he could see patients resting in their beds, some sleeping, some watching the HoloNet. Nurses attended to some while physicians administered to others. Eventually he found himself before the office with his mentor's name stenciled in aurebesh. His heart hammered in his chest as he rapped on the duraplas, his mind racing with what could possibly happen. He was starting to crave a hit.

From within, a voice called, "It's open."

Taking a deep breath, Ganhuff cycled the door and stepped inside. The man sitting at the desk had aged fairly well, keeping most of his hair though it had greyed significantly; his paunch had grown in the intervening two years and the wrinkles beneath his eyes had grown deeper. He gasped upon seeing Ganhuff standing in the door, clearly recognizing him despite his unkempt appearance.

"Hello Werax," the glit-biter said, smiling sheepishly. "My apologies for not calling ahead, but this visit was entirely spur of the moment."

Tunbaoth quickly snapped out of his surprise and shot to his feet, crossing the office to where his guest stood. "Come in Ganhuff, come in." Glancing into the hall, he closed the door and turned back to his visitor. "What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice half a whisper. "There's still a warrant out for your arrest."

"I don't know what I'm doing here," the younger man replied, staring shamefully at the floor. "Something just led me here, devoid of conscious volition. I just want to talk to an old friend."

Tunbaoth sighed and returned to his desk, offering his guest a seat. "I was just brewing some dianogan tea, would you like some?"

Ganhuff tried not to wrinkle his nose at the thought of drinking that bitter stuff; he considered it to be one of many terrible things high society had tricked themselves into thinking was a delicacy. On top of that it stained your lips purple and your teeth black, making you look ridiculous. "No thank you," he said politely.

They chatted for nearly an hour, making small talk at first. Tunbaoth seemed thoroughly disgusted by the recent turns in Ganhuff's life. "Honestly, my dear boy, traveling with a Mandalorian mercenary? Barbarians, the lot of them; I had dared to hope their kind had been entirely wiped out when I'd heard about the Jedi mission to Galidraan."

"He really isn't so bad," Ganhuff replied, treading carefully. "He places his trust in me—not many do anymore—and he gives me a chance to ply my trade, albeit for little pay beyond my own protection."

"It's no wonder you've fallen into such crude behavior on the fringe, carrying a blaster and such awful things," Tunbaoth replied. After clearing his throat, he added, "… Frequenting Oobalah dens…"

Ganhuff gathered that rumors of his addiction had spread far and wide across his abdicated niche; he'd fallen so far out of favor since his departure from the Core, that he was regarded as a total outsider. None of his former friends and colleagues would have anything to do with him if they met him now.

He felt a profound sense of alienation from this world, far beyond the simple fact that everyone he'd known had turned their backs on him. The inane prattle spewing from the mouth of the man he once respected irritated him like a case of knytix pox. Every other word Tunbaoth spoke held no more substance than idle society gossip; he had to hide his eyes so his old mentor couldn't see them roll.

Abruptly between rounds of whose dirty, scandalous secrets were being whispered between whom, Ganhuff stood; glanced at his chrono; and said, "I'm sorry Werax, I should really be leaving. I wouldn't want to sully your good standing with my association. Thank you so much for your time, I… enjoyed getting to speak with you again."

Behind him, Tunbaoth stood as Ganhuff approached the door and asked, "Do you have to leave so soon? You're not a lost cause, my boy, you can be rehabilitated."

That caught Ganhuff mid-stride as he sensed malice drifting up from the doctor's surface emotions. "What do you mean Werax?" he asked, still facing the door.

"I mean I could help you reenter polite society. You've fallen on hard times, lad, but that doesn't mean you can't enjoy a meteoric rise back to your former station. Imagine the look on Lady Wessira's face when she sees you at one of her dinner parties again."

Ganhuff turned to face his former colleague who pasted a jolly smile across his craggy features. "To my recollection, you were a rather knowledgeable doctor when I worked here, Werax," he said, glaring at the older man. Slowly, he took several steps toward him, nearly coming nose to nose as he spoke. "You should know then, one of the effects of glitterstim ingestion, aside from a feeling of general euphoria, is a heightened empathic and mild telepathic perception."

Tunbaoth chuckled uneasily. "Come now Ganhuff, you don't really believe that? That's the placebo effect at its finest."

"I can tell you're lying," the younger man answered, deadly serious.

Tunbaoth's eyes went wide as he stared into Ganhuff's face mere centimeters away from his own. Swallowing past a lump in his throat, he said, "I'm so sorry Ganhuff. You're a wanted criminal, my hands were tied."

"How long?"

"You were flagged the moment you passed the nurse's station. The authorities will be here any minute."

Ganhuff's heart sank and he whipped around, passing quickly out of the office and heading down the hall at a fast walk. He had to get out of there, fast.

###

Hours passed in the raucous din of the Outlander Club. While the Tortoise and the Flower waited, Maalku shut out all outside distractions and slipped into the swirling mists. He was Findsman, part of an ancient tradition from his home planet Gand that specialized in the reading of omens and the divination of the future. Closing the translucent membranes over his large compound eyes, Maalku flexed his three-fingered hands, slowly clenching and unclenching his fists, and let the mists take him.

For a moment he was back on Gand, surrounded by the thick fog of the planet's ammonia-rich atmosphere. His shoulders relaxed as he inhaled deeply of his native air, relishing the sweet scent in his olfactory glands as the respirator fixed over his mandibles seemed to disappear. Then the images assaulted him.

In a palatial garden, a child lined up ranks of toy soldiers.

The Golden-shelled Tortoise remained locked in battle with a green-shelled tortoise.

In a watchtower, a sentry dozed, oblivious to the fort he was meant to guard.

They swirled about him randomly in the mist, appearing, disappearing, and reappearing before his eyes, some with distinct details, others so vague as to be no more than an idea in his mind. Then he saw with utter clarity.

A monstrous creature in black, with a face of death, and holding a blade of fire stood over him. It glared down at Maalku with eyes that did not see and raised its blade high over its domed head. Terror gripped the Findsman as ragged, unnatural breath rasped in his tympanic membranes. Maalku threw up his hands in a feeble attempt to ward off the blow as the monster struck and fire burned through his nervous system.

The next thing he knew, stars danced before his eyes before fading back into the Outlander Club. He lay on the floor, facedown, convulsing violently; slowly he realized that the convulsions were being caused by his companions shaking him, attempting to awaken him. "Maalku is all right," he buzzed through his breath mask's vocoder. He reached up with a hand, prompting them to stop.

"What happened?" the Great Tortoise demanded. "You were sitting there with your eyes closed then you just keeled over."

"Are you all right?" the Flower asked, her voice edged with concern.

A crowd of onlookers had gathered in a circle since his spill and Tortoise was waving at them to keep their distance. Standing, Maalku reached down to retrieve his cone-shaped hat, feeling a wave of dizziness pass over him and his knees threaten to buckle as he did so. Taking hold of the booth to steady himself, he said, "I think… I think I saw the moment of my death."

Tortoise and Flower stared at him as he let that statement sink in. "Your death?" Tortoise demanded at last, his voice tinged with disbelief.

"Yes," Maalku answered stoically, already accepting what was to be as he replaced his hat atop his chitinous head. "A creature in black with a blade of fire will strike me down."

"That's got to be some kind of metaphor," Flower insisted. "Right?"

Maalku's vocoder released a buzz of static, a digitized facsimile of a sigh. It was touching that, in spite of the way their journeys had intersected, they regarded him as an ally. "Maalku does not believe so. It was all so clear… At least I won't be surprised when it comes," he added, narrowing his compound eyes slightly and spreading his mandibles in an attempt at a human smile. It went unnoticed behind his breath mask.

"Something else I saw," he continued, changing the subject, "that I believe pertains to the task at hand. There was a guard sleeping in a watchtower."

They stared at him for several moments, waiting for him to elaborate. When he didn't, Tortoise asked, "And you think that has what to do with us?"

"The lapse in vigilance is a sign that we shall pass unnoticed into the Jedi Temple," the Findsman answered earnestly. "I have foreseen it."

"That sounds awfully vague compared to your death prediction."

The Gand shrugged. "Some visions are more symbolic than others."

"In other words, you have no proof," Flower sighed.

"Maalku _has_ been interpreting these signs for years," he offered sheepishly.

"Fine, we'll take your word for it," Tortoise said as he spotted the approaching Snivvian.

The Greasy Womprat dug a clawed finger into his snout then flicked away something gelatinous before stepping up to them. "Good evening gentle-beings," he greeted them gregariously, clapping Tortoise on the back with his unclean hand. "Well, it took some doing, but I got everything you asked for."

Maalku could see Tortoise try to keep the disgust from showing on his face while he took the proffered items from the slicer. "One code cylinder with the activation code to a shiny new airspeeder waiting for you outside; you better be quick before someone steals it," Womprat chuckled. "A datapad authorizing you to land said airspeeder in the Jedi Temple Hangars. And last but not least, identichips for the three of you; welcome to the Jedi Order, friends."

Flower handed the slicer a stack of credits. Quickly counting them up, he turned and strolled away. "Best of luck to you," he called over his shoulder as he melted back into the dark nightclub.

###

Ganhuff's heart hammered in his chest as he frantically pushed the call button. _When will they invent a turbolift that understands urgency?_ he wondered, pressing repeatedly. He'd raced back to the lift from Tunbaoth's office the moment he stepped out; the nearby nurse's station was conspicuously abandoned. Not a good sign.

At last the turbolift door opened before him with a _ding_. Ducking into the brightly lit cylinder, he applied the same method to the lift's lobby button. With agonizing slowness, the doors closed themselves together and the lift began its nerve-wracking descent. All he could do was stand there, quivering with adrenaline, and enjoy the tacky music. _I hope the others are doing better than I am._

###

"CSF hasn't reared its ugly head, so we must be in the clear," Buruk said at the controls of their newly acquired speeder as he piloted them into the Temple Precinct's airspace. "Guess the little grease ball came through for us." In the boot, they'd found three sets of robes which they now wore, disguising themselves as members of the Republic's Most High Honorable Society of Spoon-Benders.

Dominating the cityscape before them was a massive stepped ziggurat jutting up majestically from the surrounding buildings, encircled by a long, broad promenade. To separate it from the Unwashed Masses, Buruk suspected. Atop the Temple's flat roof were four towers, one at each corner, and a single massive spire nearly a kilometer tall at the roof's center. Exotic gardens and statues adorned the areas surrounding the towers and Buruk could see tiny figures, _Jetiise_, wandering about as they approached.

"Listen to the pretentious names they've got for those towers," Lynli snorted, studying her datapad in the passenger seat. "'The Council of First Knowledge.' 'The Council of Reconciliation.' 'The Reassignment Council.' Could they be any more self-important?"

"First Knowledge sounds like where we want to go," Buruk replied. To the Gand in the back seat, he called, "I hope you're right about us getting in without a fuss." As it turned out, they were able to land with barely a greeting; for a moment he was worried they weren't even going to contact him to provide landing clearance.

Once the speeder was settled in the hangar at the base of the First Knowledge tower, the three "Jedi" hopped out and proceeded—inconspicuously they hoped—in the general direction they assumed would take them where they were headed while Wally scooted along after them, whistling to himself. Piling into a turbolift, Lynli broke the silence on the way down into the ziggurat. "You have no idea where we're going," she muttered nervously.

"Neither do you," Buruk muttered back, trying to neutralize his Mandalorian accent while shifting his weight from foot to foot. Only Maalku seemed perfectly calm, standing silently behind them.

The turbolift opened onto a cavernous red-carpeted hallway lined with pillars. Evenly spaced along the outer wall were massive floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out across Galactic City. Robed Jedi passed back and forth through the hall in either direction to parts unknown, completely ignoring the three infiltrators. "I hope that vision of yours extended to inside the Temple as well Maalku," Buruk said. The Gand said nothing.

Picking an arbitrary direction, the trio ambled along, trying to look as though they belonged. Forcing confidence into one's stride so deep into enemy territory and in plain sight proved to be a daunting task. Eventually they wandered across a great, vaulted door labeled "Library."

"I guess this is the place," Buruk shrugged.

Together, they passed through the door into an enormous hall split into two floors held up by decorative columns. On either side of them were stacks of datatapes and holobooks as well as bronzium busts of beings they could only guess were famous Jedi. Along the center of the hall were computer terminals were studious young apprentices and even more mature members could access information. Nodding toward one, Lynli said, "That's what we need, a computer."

Continuing deeper into the library, the entrance hall opened up into a large, circular rotunda from which three other halls branched off, at right angles to each other. Wally released a low, impressed warble. The walls held more terminals and a lifttube leading up to the second floor, and in the center of the room was a strange, faintly glowing object on a pedestal, shaped like a dodecahedron. It was clearly an artifact of great importance to hold such a prominent position in the Jedi library. _Or maybe it's just some modern art piece_, Buruk mused, staring at the thing.

He nearly jumped when a grandmotherly voice behind him asked, "Is there something I can help you with?"

He turned to find himself facing an old woman, human, with prominent cheekbones, birdlike features, and pure white hair fastened in a bun with a pair of polished sticks. She pressed her lips together in a thin smile that seemed somehow both heartwarming and condescending.

"Ah, no thank you Master," Buruk managed, nodding his head in a slight bow. Before she could press him further, he scampered off to join his comrades who had found an open terminal down one of the branching hallways.

"Let me know if you need anything," she called after him.

Arriving at Lynli's side, he asked, "Got anything?"

"Wally's jacked into the computer core so we have full access and I ran a search for Galidraan; it gave me a brief summary and a list of names," she replied. "There seems to be a little confusion about the date it took place."

"I guess they're too busy interfering with people's lives to keep all their facts straight," Buruk muttered. "Do the names have profiles attached?"

Lynli tapped a few keys. After a moment, she answered, "Yep. Thirteen listed as KIA, including the one on Pelorum."

He gripped the back of her seat intensely. "Does it say where the live ones are now? What missions they might be on?"

She paused, looking for the relevant information. "Yes."

"Perfect. Download that to your datapad." He stood up straight and let a smile creep onto his face. "This hunter's going on safari."

###

Master Nurt Ulasac sat at the computer terminal in the Temple library, reading a history of the Mandalorian Wars that occurred almost four thousand years ago. Since the mission to Galidraan, he'd searched the archives for validation that they had done the right thing in expunging such a scourge from the galaxy; he found it in the countless atrocities the Mandalorians had committed throughout history. Even more than the Sith, it seemed, the Mandalorians had been determined to spread chaos and darkness all across the universe; had it not been for the valiant efforts of the Jedi, they very well could have succeeded.

At the very beginning of their history, before Coruscant had become the sprawling ecumenopolis it was today, the Mandalorians nearly wiped out the native human tribes with a volcanic eruption that shrouded the planet in ash and smoke for years. Millennia later, they allied themselves with the forces of the Sith Lord Ulic Qel-Droma, invading the Republic and killing millions in the Great Sith War.

The worst atrocities by far, however, were committed during the Mandalorian Wars, particularly by a man known as Cassus Fett. At his direction, the invaders attempted genocide against the Cathar, enslaved trillions to supply their war machine or fight on the front lines, and rained a nuclear holocaust on the Stereb cities of the planet Serroco. A mad Mandalorian scientist known as Demagol kidnapped and performed horrible experiments on Jedi, even younglings.

With such a resume, Ulasac felt more than righteous about removing their blight from the Galaxy. The only time in their history they had proved beneficial had been after the Jedi Civil War, when they helped defeat the Sith Lord Darth Nihilus, but one good deed was not enough to redeem the marauders from millennia of wickedness. And now some members of the Order had the audacity to say the mission to Galidraan had been a mistake, that the Mandalorians had been wronged. Why couldn't they see?

They were listening too attentively to Master Dooku. He argued that the Mandalorians were an honorable people, a trait that many had taken advantage of throughout their history to manipulate them into doing their bidding. Even if that were the case, it hardly excused them from their crimes.

Because of Galidraan, Dooku had refused to recommend his Padawan, Komari Vosa, for knighthood, on the grounds that she had been too overzealous in exterminating the savages to make a proper Jedi. The Council had supported his decision and moved to expel her from the Order, but before their will could be carried out she somehow attached herself to a Jedi mission to Baltizaar to fight the marauding Bando Gora cult and prove herself worthy of knighthood. She'd been reported captured and presumed dead shortly thereafter. Rumor had it that Dooku was about to resign his position as a Master and leave the Order for good. The effects of Galidraan were truly far-reaching.

Suddenly a feeling of malice jolted through Ulasac's mind. Snapping his head up from the terminal where he sat, he whipped his head around and found all eyes in the library turned on a trio huddled around a computer in the Second Hall. A human male with long red hair tied back in a braid thrown around his neck like a scarf stood with a stocky, insectoid Gand and a violet-skinned Twi'lek female who sat at the terminal.

A little utility droid jacked into the computer near them swiveled its head around at the Jedi staring in their direction. It trembled, almost nervously, and began tugging on the female's sleeve with its manipulator arm. Sensing something was amiss; they all glanced about at the watching Jedi and got up to leave quietly. The Archives' chief librarian, Jocasta Nu, attempted to stop them, but the human shouldered roughly past her as they quickened their stride. Frowning, Ulasac leapt to his feet and followed them out, probing their thoughts with the Force. Once out in the great hallway, he called after them. "Hey!"

The human turned and his green eyes went wide. "_Shabla Jetii_," he swore in a thickly accented voice. "Run!"

As they fled, Ulasac pulled his lightsaber from his belt, part of him recognizing the man's accent and language. _That was Mandalorian!_ he realized as he gave chase, using the Force to lengthen his stride and gain ground on them quickly.

Padawans and younglings made way as the chase passed them by, some so startled that they threw up a shield around themselves with the Force, unconsciously applying their lessons. As Ulasac rounded a corner, a pair of blaster bolts lanced at him from down the hall. Igniting his lightsaber with a distinctive _snap-hiss_, the yellow blade burned to life and batted the shots away harmlessly, scorching the wall and floor respectively before continuing pursuit.

_How could a Mandalorian have infiltrated the Temple, and why?_ he wondered. _They're all supposed to be dead._ It made no sense but perhaps the answer lay in the library terminal they had been accessing. He would have to go back to find out if he couldn't capture the intruders first.

###

Lynli ran for her life, pumping her legs as hard as she could. Her breath burned in her chest as she willed herself to go faster. Buruk pulled a blaster pistol he'd concealed within his robes and fired a pair of rapid shots when the green-skinned Twi'lek Jedi chasing after them turned the corner, only to have them ricochet uselessly off his lightsaber.

Each turn they took led them off in another random direction, turning her around so completely that she'd lost all sense of where they were. "We're lost!" she shouted at Buruk who continued to cover the rear, taking random shots at their pursuer.

"Just keep going," he snarled. "We'll lose him first, then we'll figure out where we are."

"Maalku believes it more likely they will lock down the Temple," the Findsman opined.

Piling into a turbolift, Lynli slapped at the button to close the doors before the Jedi reached them. Her heart leapt into her throat as a burning yellow blade plunged into the car. The three of them desperately tried to make themselves part of the walls enclosing them as the car shot upward, dragging the lightsaber down through the floor and away.

Catching her breath, she turned on Buruk. "Now what?" she demanded, shoving him in the chest. He didn't budge. "We'll never find our way out now! We're headed up the tower!" Anger burned in her gold eyes almost like the lightsaber that had nearly bisected them.

"Calm down," Buruk told her in an even voice. "I'll get us out of this. I promise."

Just then Lynli noticed one of them was absent. "Where's Wally?" she cried.

"He must've taken a wrong turn," Buruk guessed. "We'll find him on our way out."

"This may not be the best time," Maalku spoke up hesitantly, "but Maalku believes that Thernbee is in danger as well."

###

At long last, Ganhuff reached the lobby. Bystanders stared at him as though he'd grown a second head as he ran full speed for the large transparisteel doors. Before he reached them, a floodlight snapped on, temporarily blinding the fugitive and stopping him in his tracks. Then a voice came over a loudspeaker, saying, "Ganhuff Riscan, this is the Coruscant Security Force. We have the building surrounded. Release the hostages and come out with your hands in the air."

Blinking away the sudden brightness, Ganhuff shielded his eyes against the bright spotlight held on him. "Hostages?" he asked aloud. Turning to the lobby's inhabitants, he saw them cowering in fear behind the sofas and decorative columns. Shrugging his shoulders, he reached into the sleeve of his overcoat and produced a small holdout blaster. "Might as well play the hand you're dealt," he muttered, walking over to the receptionist booth.

"Excuse me, madam," he said to a middle-aged Bothan female as he approached. "May I borrow your comm?" Without a word, she tore the headset she wore free and practically threw it at him. "Thank you," he said with a charming smile.

Into the comlink, he said, "Operator, I'm at Galactic General Hospital. Would you be a dear and connect me with the CSF taskforce outside? Thank you kindly."

Several minutes passed as he was transferred. He smiled amicably at his newly acquired "hostages." At last the call went through. "Hello, officer? This is Ganhuff Riscan. I'm just calling to let you know my demands…"

_TO BE CONTINUED…_


	18. Funky Town Part 3

W4-L3 peered skittishly around a corner, rotating his disk-shaped head from side to side, looking for any sign of danger. Assessing none, the little utility droid settled back on his supports and zipped off down the corridor, his wheels _whirring_ over the polished marble. He warbled mournfully, inspecting each face he passed, trying to identify his missing shipmates, but to no avail. They'd disappeared shortly after the Twi'lek with the lightsaber began chasing them through the halls of the Jedi Temple and now Wally calculated an 87.223% chance they were completely lost.

Trundling through the ziggurat's vast halls, he found the visual data he collected directly contradicted the information in his memory banks claiming Jedi to lead simplistic lives devoid of aesthetic pleasures or creature comforts. There was nothing simple about the great columns, arches, and buttresses soaring overhead and Wally couldn't help but release an impressed-sounding "oooo" as his big blue photoreceptor scanned his surroundings.

With his attention focused directly behind him, Wally didn't see the Jedi until he'd run right into him. "Ow!" he cried, hissing through clenched teeth.

Spinning his head back around, Wally chirped in surprise and saw a human male with long black hair bound at the end with a piece of thin white cord, hopping up and down and tenderly rubbing his shin. He wore a burgundy cloak over pale, off-white robes, with the sleeves gathered at the elbows in a pair of black forearm bands. Wally released an alarmed shriek and sped away as fast as his wheels would carry him, nearly burning out his servos in the process.

"Hey, wait!" the Jedi called after him.

Ducking through an open doorway, the droid found himself faced with a group of small Jedi of various species, children according to his calculations. Barely taller than Wally, they turned in unison at his entrance and shut down their lightsabers. "Hello," one of them, a Togruta, beamed, as she pushed up the visor on the helmet that obscured her vision.

Wally tried to back away slowly, rapidly blinking his big blue photoreceptor. Before he could make it out the door he'd entered through, the Jedi he'd run into in the hallway stepped up behind him, blocking his escape. Smiling warmly at the younglings, he said, "Sorry for my tardiness."

The children all bowed respectfully to the man and said in unison, "Hello Master Kit-Sun."

"Hello younglings," he replied, his voice full of warmth. Nodding to the utility droid, he said, "I see you've made a new friend. Why don't we suspend our lessons for a while and have some fun with him, shall we?"

Cheering, they gathered around Wally eagerly, giggling in their young, high-pitched voices. With nowhere to run, he elicited a low, nervous warble as they surrounded him.

###

"The way trouble seems to follow us around, I wouldn't be surprised if the little trash compactor didn't just run off," Buruk muttered, storming through the halls of the Tower of First Knowledge, trying to look inconspicuous. He led the way, searching for a place to double back the way they'd come and return to their airspeeder before the Jedi locked down the Temple to prevent their escape, while Lynli followed, glaring daggers at the back of his skull.

"Maybe trouble wouldn't follow us around so much if you didn't go looking for it all the time," the violet-skinned Twi'lek snapped. She'd opposed his plan to infiltrate the Jedi Temple from the start and now she insisted on finding Wally before she would leave, lockdown or no.

"We do seem to have more than our share of misadventures," Maalku observed, bringing up the rear, clutching his shockprod staff close to his chest. "At this rate, we should have our own action figures in no time."

Buruk and Lynli threw confused looks over their shoulders at the Findsman, then continued forward; it was usually better to leave the Gand to his ramblings.

Though they never stepped onto a turbolift, every path they chose only seemed to lead them farther up the tower, further reducing their odds of escape. "We're getting nowhere," Lynli complained.

"Of course we are," Buruk insisted. "We're getting away from the lightsaber-wielding _Jetii_ that wants to kill us."

Lynli frowned. "Point taken," she replied grudgingly.

Unfortunately, the _manda_ seemed to be conspiring against Buruk, as they turned a corner and came face-to-face with their foe, a male Twi'lek with olive green skin and fiery red eyes. He stepped out of an open turbolift and pulled his lips back from pointed yellow teeth in a feral snarl as he ignited his lightsaber. The yellow blade burned to life with a distinctive _snap-hiss_ that batted Buruk's reflexive blaster shot harmlessly away. The Mandalorian swore and tried to backpedal, lamenting the robes he'd disguised himself with, having left his protective _beskar'gam_ aboard their ship.

The Jedi lunged forward, thrusting straight ahead toward the Mandalorian's throat, the blade humming fiercely. Distantly, Buruk recognized the Twi'lek as one of the Jedi responsible for slaughtering his people at Galidraan, when another weapon _crackled_ to life, and Maalku's shock staff parried the blow before it could touch him, fingers of blue lightning crawling along the forked prongs as it guided the deadly blade into the wall just centimeters to the side of the human's head.

Wasting no time, Buruk slammed his shoulder into the Jedi's stomach, spearing him in a classic zoneball move that took them both to the floor and forced him to release his grip on his lightsaber; the weapon clattered to the floor, shutting itself down. The Jedi responded with a telekinetic push that launched Buruk across the hall, slamming him against the far wall. Calling his lightsaber to his hand, the Jedi returned to his feet and blocked a blow from Maalku's staff, twisting the prods away with a flick of his wrist. Another telekinetic push sent Maalku hurtling against the wall next to Buruk and an invisible hand held them in place.

"What are you doing in this sacred Temple, Mandalorian?" he demanded, spitting the word as if it were a curse. "How did you escape the justice of Galidraan?" He stood over them, arm outstretched, the tip of his blade held bare centimeters from Buruk's throat.

That's when Lynli leapt into action, yelling out a war cry and taking him down with a flying armbar that trapped his weapon hand. With his concentration broken, Buruk and Maalku regained their feet. "Nice move," the Mandalorian breathed, retrieving his blaster.

No sooner had he spoken the words, however, than yet another invisible fist slammed into them, wrenching Lynli free of the Jedi and casting them down the hall in a torrent toward a large window overlooking the city. They never slowed, smashing into the pane and cracking the transparisteel in wild spiderweb patterns. Buruk's skull bounced off the hard surface and stars danced before his eyes. Groaning, they climbed to their feet and in the blink of an eye, the Jedi had flown down the hall, rearing back to strike with his lightsaber.

"Duck!" Buruk shouted, grabbing his companions and shoving their heads down below the Jedi's sweeping arc. The humming blade passed above their heads, cutting through the window. In a shower of sparks, the transparisteel finally shattered and without thinking, the Mandalorian dove through the portal into space, yanking Lynli and Maalku out with him.

His heart leapt up into his throat and Lynli released a long, loud scream as they plummeted for what seemed like forever, the bright lights of Coruscant spiraling dizzyingly around them. Flailing out into the air, they desperately caught hold of each other, hopelessly clinging to each other for dear life as they fell through the abyss.

Even Buruk felt resigned to their imminent death as his life flashed before his pale green eyes. Strangely, the thought of death terrified him, the hardened mercenary with nothing to live for save revenge, and he held onto Lynli as tight as he could, the last constant in his crumbling life. He only regretted that he'd dragged her down with him, literally.

But it wasn't his day to die. Suddenly, he landed atop a slow-moving speeder truck with a loud, echoing thump that knocked the wind out of him. As the repulsor vehicle sped away from the Jedi Temple, Lynli and Maalku came crashing down on top of him, crushing the Mandalorian beneath their combined weight. With no air in his lungs, Buruk let out a feeble cry as they left the Temple and the Jedi behind.

###

Ganhuff paced back and forth across the lobby of Galactic General Hospital, waiting for the Coruscant Security Force to make its move. He'd demanded the most random, off-the-wall things he could think of in order to keep them busy and, he hoped, secure an insanity plea just in case his plan failed.

His "hostages" cowered on their knees behind the receptionists' counter, their hands placed firmly on their heads. He'd placed them there so they would be protected in the unlikely event the CSF decided to just come in shooting. He almost wished they would, if for no other reason than to relieve him of the tiresome burden of having to listen to Tunbaoth's constant admonishments. Ganhuff had trussed up the hospital's chief of staff and tucked him away in a corner where he relentlessly attacked the disgraced doctor's character.

About the time Tunbaoth began asking, "What would your father say?" Ganhuff got fed up and stormed over to where the older man knelt, bound by power cables, and pistol-whipped him across the face. That swiftly shut the blowhard up. Ganhuff couldn't help feeling a measure of satisfaction at that.

###

Wally could feel his gears heating up as he sped down the crowded hall, weaving between pedestrians with reckless abandon. He couldn't stand another minute of the torture those children had subjected him to.

At the suggestion of their master, they'd welded a metal cone atop his head with a long pink ribbon attached to the point like some comical hat. They had then taken turns chasing him about the room trying to grab a hold of the ribbon with their invisible Force and pull him wherever they wished.

As soon as they'd turned their backs for but a moment, he'd fled out the door and ducked into an open maintenance hatch, the cone snapping off when it struck the low ceiling. Through the narrow winding corridors, he indignantly made a mental note never to tolerate any creature below its species' optimum breeding age.

Now he made his way through the open halls of the Temple once more, never slowing down for an instant. He calculated that 37.473% of the Jedi he passed assumed he knew where he was going and was supposed to be there while the remaining 62.527% never deigned to notice a lowly utility droid.

Well, they were half right. When he'd sliced into the library archives, he'd also downloaded a blueprint of the Temple.

###

Eventually the speeder truck deposited them in Coruscant's undercity, a wretched necropolis of abandoned and condemned buildings where the worst elements roamed unchecked and legends of wild animals and feral humanoids abounded. Checking the charge on his blaster pistol, Buruk confirmed he had only three shots left and once again wished for his Mandalorian armor. Throwing his braid around his neck, he set out down the dark streets, Lynli and Maalku close on his heels.

"Where are we going?" his Twi'lek partner demanded, gathering up her robes to accommodate their pace.

"Away," he answered curtly. "CSF will be looking for us. Have to ditch these robes."

"What about Wally?"

"One thing at a time," he growled. "We don't have time to worry about him."

"Of course not," she hissed. "We only have time for what's important to you."

He stopped and looked back at her, and his eyes softened ever-so-slightly. "That's right," he replied and turned away, continuing along the street.

As they wound through the maze of crumbling foundations, Buruk got the distinct impression someone was watching them. Peering into the darkness, his prosthetic eye distinguished nothing sinister hidden in the shadows but still the feeling persisted. Something that could have been a large rodent or a small humanoid rustled amidst the garbage piled along the edges of the street, darting deeper into the gloom. Rather than waste a blaster bolt, Buruk hefted a chunk of duracrete from the ground and hurled it in the creature's direction. The slab skittered and ricocheted amongst the trash and shadows but nothing moved, no animal rushed away to safety.

Cautiously, the trio crept forward, their imaginations alive with the possibilities. When they were within a meter of where the noise had issued, they stopped and stared, waiting for something to happen. Without a sound, the same piece of crumbling duracrete shot out from the darkness and caught Buruk between the eyes, throwing stars across his vision. Staggering back several paces, he rubbed the sore spot on his forehead where even now a sizable lump was forming. "Ow," he protested.

In a rush, a whirlwind of rags launched itself from the shadows, throwing itself at the Mandalorian. Lynli stared in stunned silence beside Maalku who remained stoic to the whole scene as Buruk landed on his back with the small hands of a boy barely into his teens wrapped pathetically around his throat.

"What's the big idea throwing a rock at me?" the youth demanded, wringing the Mandalorian's neck. His face was smudged with dirt and his dirty blond hair was tangled and matted, hanging in a mess down to his shoulders. His brown eyes flashed with indignation.

Once the initial shock of being struck and knocked off his feet passed, Buruk reached up and tore the boy's hands free of his throat. Gasping in a lungful of air, he levered himself up to his feet and held his assailant out at arm's length. "_Udesii ad_," he barked, holding the boy's flailing arms and legs to prevent further assault. "What are you doing watching us?"

The youth frowned, still struggling against Buruk's iron grip, and spat, "Three Jedi wander into the neighborhood, what do you expect me to do?"

Buruk cocked his eyebrow and threw Lynli a vindicated look. "I told you we needed to ditch these robes."

Suddenly the boy clamped his teeth down on Buruk's hand. Hissing, the Mandalorian involuntarily released his grip and his captive went scampering away down an alley. "Hey!" he shouted after him, giving chase. Catching the boy again, he tried to neutralize his tone. "We're not Jedi," he insisted, struggling to keep the youth under control this time. "We just snuck into the Jedi Temple and escaped."

"How do I know you're not Jedi?" the boy demanded, glaring up at Buruk.

"Well for one, I'm not forcing you to calm down with some mystical power."

"Yeah, because your current method is _oh_ so effective," Lynli interjected, her voice dripping sarcasm.

"_Ne'johaa_," Buruk snapped back, glaring daggers at her. "Just this once, please?" When she pressed her lips together tightly, he turned back to the boy in his arms and, lowering his voice as though to guard against being overheard, he said, "I'm a Mandalorian."

The boy's eyebrows shot up in surprise and his expression immediately turned disbelieving. "No way," he scoffed. "Where's your armor?"

"He left it on our ship, in his infinite tactical wisdom," Lynli sneered.

"Maalku is afraid the Great Tortoise did indeed leave his shell aboard the ship," Maalku confirmed, contemplatively tracing patterns on the ground with the end of his shockprod staff.

"The _Jetiise_ would never have let a _Mando'ad_ in full _beskar'gam_ just walk through their door and sift through their archives," Buruk explained slowly, gritting his teeth against his rising frustration. "We still barely made it out alive. We need a place to hole up for a couple of hours until the heat dies down."

The boy wrinkled up his nose at that. "I guess you can stay with me for a while," he replied grudgingly. "It's getting dark soon and trust me, you don't want to be on the streets after nightfall."

###

He'd made it to the hangar complex at the base of the Tower of First Knowledge without a fuss, ignored by everyone he passed. Now Wally tootled happily as he came upon the airspeeder with which they'd entered and climbed aboard.

Monitoring the Temple's internal comm traffic informed him that his companions had already made their escape—however unorthodoxly—so he spared no time waiting and fired the engines.

###

Eventually the boy, who identified himself as Aerek Orlan, led them to his little hideaway, a cramped little nook deep within one of the enormous buildings upon which Coruscant's uppercity was constructed. It was a single room, about seven meters square, filled with the collection of barely salvageable items common to one living the packrat lifestyle. Lynli's golden eyes darted across the deactivated bodies and parts of various droids, a heating plate, and an old conservator that had seen better days. A pile of crumpled 6limsy in one corner served as a bed while the remainder of the open space remained unused. She wondered what the boy did here.

He'd made a fuss over them upon entering, treating them more than hospitably; clearly he didn't receive many visitors. As an orphan herself, Aerek had her sympathy. After their initial confrontation he took a shine to Buruk, probing him with questions about the Mandalorians and their legendary fighting abilities, asking if different things he'd heard were true. While he kept Buruk busy telling stories, Lynli turned to Maalku to vent her frustrations.

"I don't understand," she hissed, frowning as she spoke. "He opens up more to an orphan and a man he hasn't seen in twenty-five years than he has to me the whole time I've known him. It's like I don't even matter to him." She couldn't entirely keep the hurt from her voice.

The Gand ruminated for several minutes, his glossy black eyes covered by a translucent membrane that served as his eyelids. After several breaths, he buzzed, "The Great Tortoise cares greatly for you, Flower. He meant that we only had time for what was important to him, which truthfully meant his comrades. He has great respect for you, both as a fighter and a mechanic, but he keeps you at arm's length because he knows you are at heart a survivor and he is in the business of death. He is worried of the pain it would cause you if you were to become close and he was forced to leave you and enter his afterlife."

Lynli frowned, her lekku twining in confusion. "How do you know this?" she wondered aloud.

Maalku took a deep breath of his ammonia and replied, "While meditating upon your vessel, Maalku had a vision of a violet trumpet flower blooming in the protective shadow of a cactus. Both were rooted in the sand of a harsh desert where existence is difficult and often-times fleeting. The cactus is difficult to get close to for its spines will prick any who dare take hold of it, but for those who can navigate a path between those defenses, within the cactus awaits nourishing water. He has opened such paths to you before, Flower, but to reach it you must grow beyond the cactus' shadow."

Lynli blinked several times, taking in what the Findsman had said. Either he was a philosophical genius or an utter nutcase; she wasn't quire sure which. She did know, however, that Buruk had an uncanny ability to open up to her, only to cut himself off again before she could get close to him, just as Maalku suggested.

Sighing, she cast a glance over to where Buruk was settling down for the night, kneeling down and closing his eyes. In a hushed, reverent tone, he spoke to no one in particular. "_Ni su'cuy, gar kyr'adyc. Ni partayli, gar darasuum. Jag'buir; Dal'buir; Jaster; Gormer; Davrel; Myles; Ghent; Zuka; Ergeron…_"

He continued for several minutes and Lynli realized he was reciting a list of names. _They must be the ones the Jedi killed_, she thought sympathetically. He memorized every one of his fallen comrades' names and recited them before he went to sleep; that kind of dedication to his fellows stirred up feelings of admiration in her and she felt her attachment to the normally gruff mercenary grow. At once she felt ashamed to have thought him selfish. He was in a place only he could be. She merely watched from where she lay, letting the solemn drone of his voice lull her to sleep.

Hours later, she awoke to a voice crackling over a pirated comm channel. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she sat up to find Buruk, Maalku, and Aerek gathered around a comm transceiver. Buruk started intently at the device as the voice continued to buzz and pop between static-filled words.

"All units, be advised: there is a hostage situation in progress at Galactic General Hospital. Suspect is armed, white male, brown hair, hazel eyes, and height one-point-seven-six meters, weight fifty-seven kilograms. Suspect is identified as Ganhuff Riscan, wanted for twenty-three counts of manslaughter and evading arrest."

"_Shab_," Buruk swore, throwing his gaze up to the cracked ceiling. Climbing to his feet, he looked to his comrades and asked, "Well, what are you waiting for? We have to pull his _shebs_ out of the fire."

"How?" Lynli asked, puzzled. "The CSF will have the building surrounded.

Buruk cocked a grin at her and said, "He's still got a bounty on his head, right?"

As they left, Aerek grabbed the sleeve of Buruk's robe, holding tight and stopping him in his tracks. Staring intensely up into the Mandalorian's eyes, the boy said, "Take me with you." It wasn't a request so much as a demand.

Buruk's brow furrowed as he ran his eyes over the boy's lean frame, rail-thin but powerful, like a coiled spring. After a moment, his expression softened and he reached over and tousled the youth's matted blond hair. "Okay," he said. "Grab what you need. We need to stop by our ship docked at Eastport." Aerek's eyes lit up and he ran to gather his meager belongings.

###

Ganhuff wasn't entirely sure what had happened. He was still pacing across the hospital lobby, shoulders hunched, when a sudden flurry of activity outside caught his attention. He'd barely finished telling his "hostages" to keep their heads down when a human battering ram dressed in sand-gold armor roared through the transparisteel front doors, blasting them inward in a shower of harmless cubes, preshaped for safety. The jetpack left a thick plume of smoke as the armored man barreled into the doctor, tackling him to the ground and pinning him to the floor. Bewildered, Ganhuff barely had time to recognize the distinct click of binder cuffs being slapped around his wrists before he was being hauled to his feet and toward the back exit.

"Adding to your rap sheet, Doctor?" Buruk asked through his helmet's menacing voice filter. "I don't want to make a habit of claiming your bounty just to get you out of trouble."

"Good to see you too," Ganhuff replied as he was shoved out the door into the alley.

"It won't take them long to figure out I'm not bringing you in," the Mandalorian stated as they climbed the ramp into the _Cuun'yaim_'s cargo hold. "We have to get out of here fast." As he stopped to lift the ramp, he keyed the ship-wide intercom and announced, "We're aboard. Lynli, take us up while you still can."

"I've got a speeder incoming," she replied as a shudder ran through the deck as the ship lifted from the landing pad.

"That was fast," the doctor muttered, dashing across the hold to strap himself in for what he expected to be a rocky departure. "Will you be blasting out of port guns a-blazing, or do you just want to surrender?"

"Can't," Buruk called back as he took the stairs to the upper part of the ship two at a time. "Every CSF vehicle in the quadrant would be on us in no time."

On his way to the aft dormitory, Ganhuff passed a small boy curled up in a cubby hole and swaddled in an oversized Jedi robe. "Hi," the child said simply, eliciting a perplexed look from the doctor.

_What did I miss?_ he wondered. In a deadpan voice, he said aloud, "Wally, you've become a real boy."

Then Lynli's startled voice broke over the comm, "That's our speeder!"

Pausing in the hatchway, Ganhuff glanced in confusion in the direction of the cockpit. They had an airspeeder now? Honestly, what had he missed?

"What the hell are you doing woman?" Buruk shouted as the boarding ramp began to lower, forgetting to key the comm unit.

The mercenary spun toward the opening and drew his pistols, anticipating a horde of riot-armored Judicials to come storming into the hold. Instead, little Wally trundled up the ramp, the ship's errant utility droid whistling contentedly to himself as he passed Buruk without batting a proverbially eyelash. Relaxing, the Mandalorian holstered his guns and continued upward.

Entering the cockpit, he threw himself into the copilot's seat and announced, "Okay, everyone's aboard, now get us out of here!"

"Roger," Lynli replied. With that, she engaged the repulsorlifts and rose the ship up out of the docking bay. The city flashed by beneath them as they gained altitude, climbing into the glowing orange sky of twilight. Just as they thought they were about to make a clean getaway, four VAATs came swooping in to take up formation around the ship, two on either side. "We've got company," she informed her partner, hands flying across the control panel.

Warning tones began singing as they locked lasers. "Oh, what now?" Buruk groaned, placing a palm over his eyes. "Get ready to engage the SLAM drive, leave these clowns in the dust."

Just then Wally appeared next to him, his scomp link plugged into the ship's computer. It rotated several times as the droid worked at a breakneck pace.

Suddenly the comm crackled to life. "_Firefly_-class transport _Koon_… _Yaimie_?" Buruk rolled his eyes at the CSF's continued mispronunciation. "Don't worry, this is a secure channel," the officer continued in a conspiratorially hushed voice. "Sorry about the trouble earlier, we didn't know you were on a secret mission for the Jedi. But everything's been cleared up and we're here now to escort you to your hyperspace vector."

Lynli and Buruk exchanged stupefied glances, then turned their gaze down at Wally, still plugged into the ship's computer. "Jedi mission, huh?" Lynli asked.

"Good droid," Buruk cooed, patting Wally on his disk-shaped head. Keying the comm unit, he replied, "Copy that, glad things got cleared up, but uh, I think an escort would be a detriment to the secrecy of our mission."

"Copy that," the CSF officer answered. "Breaking away. Good luck, hope your mission succeeds."

"You and me both," Buruk whispered as the orange sky of Coruscant faded into the starlit blackness of space. "You and me both."


	19. The Girl From Iridonia

Kit-Sun Wolfgana regarded the floor outside the High Council chamber, tracing his blue eyes across the smooth polished tiles. The craftsman had been something of a genius, fitting so many intricate shapes together to form the beautifully designed mosaic. Not a single piece strayed more than a millimeter from its setting, all arranged according to the grand scheme of their creator. In a way, that seemed a more appropriate metaphor for the Jedi Order than most wanted to admit. For better or for ill, everyone went along with the pattern, and if anyone stepped out of line, they were either hammered back into their proper alignment or simply removed and replaced with something that fit better. That's what happened to Master Dooku, why he "chose" to leave the Order; he no longer fit. Such observations had earned Kit-Sun a reputation as being wise beyond his years.

He cut a less than impressive figure for a supposed warrior; at thirty standard years, he was slightly built with long, shiny black hair he bound at the end with a piece of white ribbon and sharp, intelligent features deeply creased with laugh lines. His cunning eyes were eternally mirthful, belying weight left on his heart ever since the ill fated mission to Galidraan.

In a manner of speaking, he felt that no one had truly left that snow-covered forest; they were casualties all of a battle that should not have been fought. Had they really made a difference? Maybe Dooku had made the right decision in the aftermath.

Kit-Sun shook away the thought.

A moment later, his friend, Nurt Ulasac, stormed into the great hall from out of the council chamber, lekku bobbing erratically as he strode. Kit-Sun didn't need the Force to know the Jedi Master's frustration; he could see it painted plainly across his chartreuse complexion.

Levering himself to his feet, he crossed the hall and fell into step beside the Twi'lek, smiling warmly at him. "So," he began good-naturedly, "how did the interview go?"

"You should know," Ulasac replied tersely, not breaking stride. "You were aware of the Council's decision before I was even summoned."

"Master, you wound me," Kit-Sun chuckled. "I never meant to imply that I had a hand in their decision."

"Well the decision's been made," the senior Jedi practically snapped his pointed teeth. "I'm to take no part in investigating the intrusion into the Temple archives. Master Windu thinks I'm too hotheaded as of late."

Kit-Sun placed a hand on his friend's shoulder, projecting an aura of calm he hoped would soothe Ulasac's nerves. "He isn't wrong," he said softly. "We've all been tormented in one fashion or another since our return to Coruscant, plagued with questions and doubts. Why did so many have to die? Could we have settled matters differently if we hadn't been so quick to take up arms? Every Jedi who's been forced into battle has faced these same demons, since the very origins of our Order."

"And each time, righteousness has remained firmly on our side," the master said. "Questioning _that_ is what has cost us our best in this instance."

The younger knight hesitated, then decided it best to change the subject. "So, what assignment has the Council given us for the time being?"

"We're to go to Corellia," Ulasac answered after taking a deep breath. "There have been a number of threats made against the diktat and CorSec. A mag-lev train laden with explosives has already been used to blow up a major rail hub and Chancellor Valorum has requested aide from the Jedi on behalf of Senator Fordox."

Kit-Sun tilted his head to one side, appalled, and asked, "Master, who would do such a thing?"

###

"Terrorists?" Lynli asked skeptically, arching a brow over one golden eye.

"A separatist group," Buruk clarified, lifting his gaze from the datapad displaying the bounty information. "They call themselves the Drall Patriots."

"And how much is CorSec offering?" his violet-skinned partner continued, arms folded across her breasts.

"Five hundred thousand credits to bring the organization down," the Mandalorian answered. He then quickly pointed out, "That's over ten times the fee we got on the last cargo you talked me into hauling."

"And a thousand times more dangerous," she insisted.

Ganhuff, Maalku, and Aerek watched the heated exchange in silence, enraptured by the pair as they switched their attention back and forth between them.

"Remind me again," Buruk said with mock forgetfulness, crossing his own arms, "what exactly was that cargo again?"

"Ten live gizka," Lynli answered sullenly, her eyes down turned to the scratched surface of the kitchen tabletop.

Maalku leaned in close to Ganhuff, modulating his vocoder so only the doctor could hear, and said gleefully, "I love this show."

"You mean five _mated pairs_ of gizka." Buruk paced the galley, shaking his head as he continued the tirade. "Ten, which turned into twenty, which turned into forty, and so on until the hold was bursting with the _duse_." He shuddered as he remembered cleaning up the mess when they finally managed to clear the last of the little frog-creatures off the ship.

The silent spectators did likewise; smallish droppings they may have been, but they had literally gotten everywhere. With the exception of the Gand Findsman, they'd all had cotton wadded in their nostrils for weeks until the smell finally faded. Against Buruk's advice, the doctor had taken it upon himself to shoot the vermin in a failed attempt at population control. Every near miss had resulted in a blaster bolt ricocheting haphazardly along the _Cuun'yaim_'snarrow corridors, pinging against the bulkheads.

"Besides, you owe me," Buruk added. "That run took us pretty far out of the way and I've got places to go, _Jetiise_ to kill. I need to be getting back Rimward."

"Okay," Lynli sighed. "The payoff might just be worth the risk. But they could be operating out of anywhere in the sector; just how do you plan on taking this organization down?"

"They've been bombing landmarks and infrastructure on Corellia itself; the other four Brothers have been left alone. We get a sample of their handiwork, we find out who's supplying the explosives. Through them, we find the customers."

"Hmph, sounds easy. How do we pull it off?"

"I… _might_ know someone who could help," Buruk said hesitantly.

###

They touched down on Iridonia without so much as a hail from port control, the repulsors kicking up dust and gravel as the _Cuun'yaim_ settled on its landing struts at the bottom of the Aro-voa canyon near the northern pole, several thousand kilometers from the city of Wortan. The Zabrak homeworld's two moons were high in the sky overhead but despite the late hour it was still blistering hot. The air shimmered as the crew made their way down the entry ramp and the humidity weighed down on Lynli like a thick, damp blanket.

"I never much cared for this planet," she muttered as they followed the Aro River. "Too hot, too rocky, and too many predators."

"Only on the prairie," Buruk replied, keeping his attention forward. "It's actually pretty balmy here." As if to spite her by taking his side, a slight breeze chose that moment to blow through the canyon, ruffling the heavy brown cloak he wore.

He hadn't told them who they were going to see, which annoyed her to no end; she didn't like surprises and that seemed to be all she ever got from him since they first met a year ago. "What's with the armor?" Lynli asked. "I thought you knew this person. You expect them to shoot you?"

"Maybe a little," he answered with a shrug.

"A ringing endorsement, that," Ganhuff said dryly.

Eventually a deep lowing greeted them and they came upon a small herd of bloks, rugged livestock similar to banthas and native to Iridonia, about a hundred head at least. The cattle shifted uneasily at their approach, becoming restless, bunching up together for protection from the strange newcomers.

"This should be her herd," Buruk acknowledged, creeping forward, trying not to alarm them.

"'Her'?" Lynli wondered, placing her hands on her hips.

Suddenly Buruk went down as the whine of a blaster rifle pierced the air. The high-pitched sound echoed off the canyon walls, making it impossible to determine where the shot was fired from, and Lynli, Ganhuff, and Maalku threw up their hands. "Nobody move!" a female voice called out in accented Basic. "Anybody so much as twitches, I'll put the next one right between their eyes!"

Lynli squeezed her eyes shut as Buruk groaned, climbing to his feet, and shouted back, "_Su'cuy_ Qate_! Bic_ Buruk_!_"

To Lynli's amazement, no shots were fired. Instead, she heard rocks clattering down the cliff side as someone scrambled down from their hiding place.

She opened her eyes as a Zabrak woman with dark brown skin, darker brown ringlets of hair cascading down her shoulders, and a crown of short, smooth horns sprouting up from her skull made her way toward them. She wore a look of disbelief on her intricately tattooed face as she approached, though her rifle never wavered from their direction. Her clothing was simple, a dark red lizard hide vest over a brown cotton shirt, a pair of black fitted trousers, and a pair of knee-high boots. A black leather belt with a gold buckle wrapped around her waist and a hand blaster hung from a second, lower belt, as did a sheathed vibroblade, a few spare power packs, and what Lynli suspected was a thermal detonator.

"Buruk Kelborn…" the Zabrak woman, Qate, said in amazement.

She then promptly fired again, throwing him once more to the ground and knocking the wind out of him. Lynli and the others flinched as the sound of the blaster shot rang over them and Buruk lay flat on his back, gasping for air and massaging his armored chest.

"_Gar ganar ori'gett'se, chakaar_," she snarled as she stood over and spat in his direction.

"_Jate haa'tayli gar balyc_," he coughed, standing back up. "Thanks for aiming for the armor, by the way."

"You know how rude it is letting someone who loved you think you're dead for a whole year when you're really not?" she demanded, finally lowering her weapon.

Lynli did a double take. "Excuse me?" she blurted out. "Did you just say 'love'? As in '_you_ love _him_'?"

Qate turned her attention to the Twi'lek. "What of it?"

"Him?" she repeated, pointing at the human. "The redheaded guy with the nasty scar on his face? You love him?"

Qate slung her rifle over her shoulder, replying icily, "You'd be surprised what feelings you can grow out of in a year." She turned her blue eyes back to Buruk. "You can have him."

Buruk chuckled uneasily, as he threw his braid around his neck. Maalku turned to Ganhuff and whispered, "_Awkward…_"

Clearing his throat, the doctor stepped between the jilted lovers, asking, "So, you two aren't together anymore, it's safe to assume?"

"That's right," Qate answered before Buruk could open his mouth.

"I am so very glad to hear that, my ebony goddess," Ganhuff purred, slipping his arm around her waist. "My name is Doctor Ganhuff Riscan and, if I may, you are one of the loveliest women I've laid eyes upon. A veritable warrior-woman"

She smiled sweetly, then her eyes turned hard and she asked, "Tell me, Doctor, in which cavity would you like me to insert your arm after I break it off?"

"Yikes," Ganhuff hissed, releasing his hold on her before she could make good on the threat. His hand began trembling slightly, which he covered up by hiding it behind his back. Buruk wondered when he'd taken a hit of spice last.

"I assume there's something you _need_ from me," the Zabrak continued, turning back to Buruk, "since it took so long to come see me."

The human nodded solemnly, replying, "Corellian diktat's offering big credits to whoever brings down a terrorist group wreaking havoc on his fair planet."

"And you need an explosives expert to track the material to its source," she reasoned.

"That'd be about it," he admitted.

"Just how much payoff are we talking here?"

"Five hundred large; we'll cut you in for twenty-five percent." Buruk could feel his partner glaring daggers at him; he ignored her.

"Forty," Qate countered.

"Hey, I may owe you an explanation, but not alimony," he protested. "Thirty percent."

"Thirty-five, or I walk away."

"_Haat, ijaa, haa'it_," Buruk said, holding out his hand.

Qate grasped his forearm and repeated the _Mando'a_ phrase, meaning _truth, honor, vision_, the traditional words used to seal a pact between _Mando'ade_.

Just then Lynli grabbed a handful of Buruk's braid and yanked, pulling him back several steps until they were out of earshot of the others. "Go help her pack," she called back to Ganhuff and Maalku.

"Ow! What the _shab_ are you doing, woman?" the Mandalorian demanded, reaching back to take the strain off his scalp.

"Are you out of your mind?" she countered. "You're going to let her walk away with thirty-five percent of our bounty?"

"Do you know an explosives expert who'll work cheap?" he asked. "_And_ one that's trustworthy? Qate is a very reliable woman; she won't double-cross us no matter how much money's on the table. If she really bore a grudge, she'd have shot me by now."

"She shot you twice already!" Lynli pointed out, raising her voice above a whisper.

"Nowhere that counts," Buruk shrugged. "And to be fair, it was warranted."

The Twi'lek eyed him suspiciously. "You're still sweet on her, aren't you?"

"What?" he blurted. "Are you _dini'la_? That's ridiculous."

"Is it now?"

"Ready to set sail!" They turned, interrupted by Qate who approached carrying a duffle over her shoulder, with Ganhuff and Maalku following in her wake, dragging a pair of heavy cases after them. "Be careful with those, _cyar'ike_, they're loaded with grenades."

"Grenades?" the doctor exclaimed, dropping his to the canyon floor with a dull thud, his eyes going wide as dinner plates.

"And a few mines, a couple bricks of detonite, some timers and remote detonators, and a bunch of charges. A girl's got to be prepared for anything, you know?" She winked as she passed Buruk, smiling devilishly.

###

"What a piece of junk!"

Those had been Qate's first words upon seeing the _Cuun'yaim_. Lynli ground her teeth in frustration as she followed her up the boarding ramp. _I can already see this job was going to go _real_ well_, she thought. The Zabrak was pushy, arrogant, and domineering, and to badmouth her baby on top of that? _Next thing you know, she'll be treating Wally like a piece of furniture._ Images of Qate setting empty cans of narcolethe on the droid's head or propping her feet up on him danced through her mind._ No way is she going to get away with that._

"She'll fool you," the Twi'lek replied defensively. "She's got a class one-point-five hyperdrive."

"Missiles go fast too, but they still blow up when they get where they're going," Qate replied, unimpressed, as Ganhuff practically stumbled over himself taking her bags to the aft dormitory across the cargo hold.

Lynli crossed her arms over her chest and rolled her eyes as the doctor made a fool of himself. _Men._

Curling her lekku in disgust, she proceeded up the stairway to the cockpit where Buruk prepared the ship for takeoff. "I don't like her," she declared without preamble, throwing herself into the copilot's seat. "That woman will bring us nothing but trouble."

Buruk eyed her dubiously and she just knew he was thinking something about the pot and the kettle.

"She called _Cuun'yaim_ a piece of junk!" she protested.

"No accounting for taste," he said simply, firing up the repulsorlifts to take them out of the canyon.

"Yeah, she dated you, after all," Lynli replied dryly. "_Do_ Mandalorians date? Or is that just what they call it when a man and woman decide not to shoot at each other?"

"You know, you two actually have a lot in common."

She pouted as Iridonia shrank into the distance beneath them. "Now you're just being mean."

He cracked a smile and winked at her. "Maybe a little. Anyway, we need her help on this one job. That's all."

_And if this one job turns into a prolonged stay?_ she wondered.

Lynli shook her head. Was it possible she just felt threatened because she was Buruk's old girlfriend? She couldn't begrudge him anything, considering her own sordid past. "So if you two were so close, why didn't you try to contact her after what happened on Galidraan?" she asked.

The Mandalorian cleared his throat uncomfortably. "It's… complicated…" he hesitated.

He remained silent for several minutes as he made the calculations for the jump to hyperspace. She watched him patiently as his fingers punched the coordinates into the navicomputer; he'd answer in his own time, she'd learned that over the past year. As usual his determination won out over everything else. Some would call him single-minded. Lynli—if she was feeling especially complimentary—would call it focused.

The stars stretched and the _Cuun'yaim_ leapt forward beyond the speed of light. "Really I didn't think I'd make it this long," he continued at last, leaning back heavily in his chair. "Those first few weeks I was just running around in a frenzy—blood-drunk I'd guess you'd say. The fewer people I dragged down into that dark place I went with me the better, so I just let her think of me as dead, assuming it'd be true soon enough."

"Well, I'm glad things didn't turn out the way you expected," she replied, laying a hand on his shoulder. To her surprise, he didn't shrug it off.

###

When Lynli left the cockpit for the engine room, Buruk closed his eyes and tried to hold on to the last lingering sensation of her touch. He couldn't help reflecting that she'd changed a lot since their first run-in with each other, back on the _Wheel_. So had he, for that matter. He regretted having dragged her into his problems, but the fact that she stuck around, in spite of the obvious fact that she strongly disagreed with his intentions, amazed him.

"She's quite a woman, isn't she?" Qate asked, leaning in the hatchway.

He grunted noncommittally as she swaggered into the cockpit and sat down at the copilot's station. He threw her a sidelong glance and saw she held a baking tin in one hand and was digging into something dense with a strong sweet-citrus aroma. "Is that what I think it is?" he asked.

"You tell me; I found it in the back of the conservator, hidden behind a pile of frozen dinner packs." She took another bite and through the mouthful she asked, "When did you take up baking?"

"I didn't," he said, confused.

She offered him the tin and he leaned forward, taking it gingerly. Just as he thought, it was uj cake, coated in thick syrup. He took a bite and was swept away to another time and place, where all was right and his people lived and laughed and led their lives as they always had, as the taste of honey, almonds, and citrus triggered memories of times long passed. "This is good," he said, voice trembling as he fought back tears. "This is really good."

For several long moments, they said nothing more to each other, Qate watching him closely, studying him with an intimate familiarity only she possessed, while the sole sound came from the thrum of the ship's engine. Finally, she said, "I understand why you did what you did."

"You—?" he began, sitting up quickly.

"What happened at Galidraan was bigger than the lives of any two people," she continued, taking the tin back from him. "It was an assault on our whole way of life and you had to do right by _Mand'alor_. I'd have done the same thing in your place."

Buruk just stared at the deck, lost in his tortured memory. "I lost so much," he whispered.

"For every loss, a gain," she mused.

Buruk didn't reply. He hadn't thought about it like that before. So many new things and new people had entered his life since then.

Eventually Qate finished the cake and, after licking the fork clean, said, "You know, not every _aruetii_ would go to the trouble of learning to make _uj'alyi_. And any one that did is definitely worth holding onto."


	20. TNT Part 1

Wilric Tavdine hated his job; flat out despised it. An aptitude for calculation in his youth had encouraged him into further study of advanced mathematics in his later years. He'd dreamt of applying his knowledge as a pilot or navigator on a starship, flitting about the galaxy without a care in the world, and leading a romanticized life of swashbuckling adventure.

Unfortunately, pragmatism had forced him to reluctantly set that dream aside, and replace it with the somewhat more realistic hope of one day becoming a leader in his chosen field, expanding into the realm of theoretical physics or something exciting like that. But once more he deferred, shoehorned, as it were, into the life of a mere accountant, a lowly bean counter, for the Corellian Importation Oversight Subcommittee for Agriculture and Livestock.

And he was miserable. His seemed to be the one case where a Corellian couldn't overcome the odds arrayed against him and he found it completely unfair. Why did he wind up trapped in the slate grey prison of the Coronet Capital Tower, imprisoned within a cubicle with all the other unimportant people?

At least he could look out the window every now and again, down the Tower's duracrete edifice at the people traversing Starline Avenue, either on foot or by hovercar, only a few dozen meters below. The breaks he took from his datapad just to people-watch seemed to grow longer and more frequent each day since he'd taken the job.

Absently, he wondered when they would start running the maglev trains again; since the recent terrorist attacks, the government had shut them down, pending revamped security measures. It made Wilric's commute a major hassle, one more thing to be annoyed about in his irksome life.

He saw the black, windowless hovervan pull up to the curb, illegally parking in the red, and noticed it rode lower than normal on its repulsors; probably they were just in need of a tune up and he thought nothing more of it. Then it suddenly flared into brilliant incandescence, a fireball that washed over passersby, expanding in all directions, expanding toward him. He had just enough time to watch the transparisteel window blacken and warp a split second before the blast shattered it, throwing a hundred razor-sharp daggers into his face, chest, and arms.

In his last moments as the concussion wave bowled him over, Wilric thought, _I really hate this job._

###

CorSec had done an admirable job of quickly clearing the debris from Starline Avenue so that only a few tiny bits of transparisteel crunched and scraped underfoot as Jedi Master Nurt Ulasac and his companion, Kit-Sun Wolfgana, approached the cordon in front of the Capital Tower. They'd arrived only a day before, responding to Senator Fordox's request to the Jedi Council for help in combating his world's terrorist problem.

"Tragic," Kit-Sun observed, casting his eyes about the blackened permacrete and scorched buildings as a grimfaced officer waved them by, ushering them onto the scene through the crowd of shell-shocked onlookers. He saw most of the Capital Tower's lower third had its windows knocked out and the smoldering remains of the hovervan that had exploded still sat before it like a gutted carcass picked clean by hawkbats.

"Despicable," Ulasac corrected, twitching his lekku in contempt and looking pointedly where patches of dried blood stained the sidewalks a dull brown. "You can feel the pain lingering."

"More than you think," the younger Jedi replied, stone-faced. "Pain, fear, desperation… and buried beneath it all, a sense of purpose, the barest hint of fulfillment. The driver was still aboard when the bomb went off." It wasn't conjecture. He could read emotions more easily than other Jedi, feel them emanating from inanimate objects, crackling through the very air like static electricity. If that's what he felt, there was no question as to the accuracy.

"I wouldn't call that a noble end, Master Jedi," a voice called out.

The two turned to see a dark-haired man in a CorSec uniform hustle up to them. He had grey eyes with a look of sharp intelligence about them. "Inspector Rostek Horn," he introduced himself.

They bowed their heads in unison, greeting the police officer. "Inspector," Ulasac said simply. "I am Master Nurt Ulasac; my companion is Kit-Sun Wolfgana."

"I have to say, you couldn't have arrived a moment too soon," Horn replied. "What do you make of this?"

"If you'll allow me?" Kit-Sun offered reluctantly, slowly reaching a hand out to press his palm against the warm, charred frame that was all that remained of the ruined hovervan. He hated using his power like this, experiencing the emotions surrounding another's death. It wasn't good for his Jedi tranquility.

Closing his eyes, the Force swept him backward through time, as though he were watching the events surrounding the bombing unfold in reverse order. He and Nurt backed away, the crowd dispersed, and the police cordon was taken down. Carbon scoring disappeared and transparisteel daggers flew up into the air, reseating themselves into windowpanes while maimed and shattered bodies flew to their feet as the fireball retreated back on itself into the heart of the vehicle. He saw the driver, a Drall, jerk his hand away from the steering column's horn, shift out of park, and drive in reverse back down Starline. It cruised backward on its repulsors for some time, pulling into a parking garage, before coming to a halt on the third story where the driver got out, backed away, and had his hand shaken proudly by a small group of others of his species as they said their tearful goodbyes.

Kit-Sun's eyes snapped open and he sucked in a sharp, shuddering gasp of air, his knees nearly buckling beneath him as he wrenched his hand free of the hovervan's surface as though it burned.

"Are you all right?" Horn asked, grabbing the Jedi's arm to steady him. "What happened?"

"I am fine," the Jedi answered breathlessly. "I saw where the hovervan came from… There is… a parking structure near a large outdoor market. Three Dralls met the driver on the third level before the attack."

"Sounds like he's talking about Treasure Ship Row," Horn said, taking his comlink from his belt. "I'll have units scouting the area."

"We'll meet them there," Ulasac said, throwing his friend's arm across his shoulder and helping him limp away.

###

Night had fallen over the city of Coronet by the time CorSec towed the hovervan's charred remains away from the Corellian Capital Tower. Aerek followed the recovery detail at a safe distance, never coming out in the open. Instead he stuck to the alleys, spying the hovervan's progress, then dashing along the alleys to wait for it to come back to him. This he repeated until finally they deposited the blown out vehicle in a police evidence lot.

The site was at the city's edge, several blocks from the nearest CorSec precinct, and surrounded by a simple iron-barred fence approximately three meters high with razor wire crowning the top. A pair of uniformed officers sat in a guardhouse next to the rolling gate, leaning lethargically in their chairs and no doubt staring at a vid-display with live feeds from around the yard. Aerek scoffed at the security measures.

With all the vermin scurrying around the evidence lot, he had no fear of setting off pressure sensors as he crept up to the fence where he'd located a blind spot in the cameras' views. Sticking his arms and legs between the bars experimentally, decided to try to squeeze through. The doctor had said he'd been malnourished when he came aboard the ship and had told him get plenty to eat from now on, so it took some extra effort than he was used to but he managed to force his small frame through the narrow gap without much more than a low grunt. Taking a moment to stretch his back, he felt a surge of accomplishment flush through him; he'd finally gotten the chance to prove his worth to the crew and, more importantly, Buruk. A grin spread across his cheeks.

Darting from one impounded vehicle to another, his eyes scanned the lot, looking for the hovervan. Every one of them had a tag stuck to their windscreens or, if they didn't have one, one of their windows, declaring information pertaining to whatever investigation they were involved with. Some had their bodies smashed up in collisions, others had their upholstery cut out in search of contraband. Some showed no signs of disrepair at all, leading Aerek to assume they'd simply been left parked in the wrong place at the wrong time.

At last he found the van. Looking in each direction, he reached up and pulled himself into its ruined cargo bed. It stank of smoke and something he couldn't identify, probably some chemical explosive Buruk or the Zabrak Mando he'd hired, Qate, would know. That was why he was here, after all, and he removed the sampling kit from his oversized tunic. Pushing the sagging sleeves further up his arms, he set to work scraping the blackened walls and depositing the residue in a clear duraplast container, tucking each one back into his belt. His job done, he slid back down and scampered across the yard to the fence.

###

"Nergon-Fourteen," Qate declared, looking up from her scanner. As soon as Aerek had returned with them, she'd placed the residue samples he'd collected in a small chamber attached to the very expensive, very illegal-for-private-ownership, device. She'd flatly refused to let anyone else touch it.

"Isn't that the stuff they use in proton torpedoes?" Buruk asked, scratching his chin.

"That's right," the Zabrak confirmed, spinning around in her chair to face the gathered crew. They'd crowded around to watch her work and now took a quick step back at her sudden motion. "Pretty unstable stuff, raw, but not as bad as baradium. Whoever's behind this didn't want to lose even the negligible amount of explosive power refining it would have taken."

"Why _didn't_ they use baradium?" Lynli asked, her lekku twitching in confusion. "A thermal detonator would've caused a lot more damage."

"In an enclosed space, yes," Qate nodded. "See, baradium weapons produce fusion reactions that vaporize everything within the blast radius_ but _the mechanism also creates a particle field that contains the blast to a specific volume space. A standard military thermal det only has a blast radius of about five meters. I doubt these guys could afford anything bigger and they wanted to cause as much damage over the widest possible area." She held up the sample container, shaking it slightly to stir the black residue around. "You always want the biggest bang for your buck."

"Well, let's find out who's selling and squeeze their clients out of them," Buruk said. "Lynli, you and I'll take Blue Sector, Maalku and Riscan can handle Treasure Ship Row. See what you can sniff out in the cantinas but don't go drawing CorSec's attention, especially you Doc." He looked back at the sitting Zabrak. "Qate, feel like doing a little leg-work, or does that cost extra?"

"About two-percent extra, _ner burc'ya_," she smiled pleasantly.

"That's what I thought," he muttered. "You can just stay on the ship." Then, turning to Aerek, he ruffled the boy's dirty blond hair and said with a warm smile, "_Jate bora_."

###

The parking garage had proven to be a dead end for the two Jedi. Nothing held enough emotional significance for Kit-Sun to pick up on, rendering his power useless to their continued investigation. Instead, Inspector Horn and his CorSec officers reviewed hours of camera footage in the garage's tiny security suite while Kit-Sun and Master Ulasac conferred.

"I'm sorry, Master," the younger Jedi said, humbly bowing his head as his senior stared out the window at a cantina across the street. "Perhaps if my mind wasn't so clouded I'd be able to sense something but…"

"Do not apologize, Kit-Sun, the failing is not yours," Ulasac stated, never taking his eyes off the cantina. He watched as several beings walked in and out through the front door, oblivious to their surroundings, as though they had nothing to fear. If only that were so. "As for your mind being clouded, you're hardly the only one here guilty of that. My thoughts have repeatedly gone back to that Mandalorian business at the Temple."

"Are you… certain he was a Mandalorian, Master?" Kit-Sun asked carefully, subtly probing the Twi'lek for a reaction.

"I am," he answered, leaving no room to intimate otherwise. "He spoke Mandalorian words in an accent confirmed to come from Concord Dawn, a world known for its ties to the Mandalorians. There is no doubt in my mind."

Again Kit-Sun bowed his head respectfully. "As you say, Master. But, returning to the investigation: if Horn and his men turn up nothing, what shall we do?"

"I sense another lead will present itself shortly," Ulasac answered.

As the words left his lips, an explosion shook the cantina, shooting fire and smoke from its doors and windows and throwing passersby violently off their feet to land in twisted heaps. "We are too late!" the Twi'lek shouted. "We must help those we can, hurry!" With that, he leapt out the window to the street below.

"Master wait!" Kit-Sun called after him. He could still sense something malignant through the Force, and the blast hadn't done nearly as much damage as the one outside the Capital Tower had.

Horn and his men ran into the room, their blasters drawn. "What happened?" the Inspector demanded.

"The cantina across the street just blew up," Kit-Sun informed them. "Master Ulasac has gone to help but I sense the danger has not yet passed; do not leave here."

Returning his attention to the burning cantina, he stretched his awareness outward, trying to get a sense of the situation. Master Ulasac was across the street, hurling rubble aside with the Force in his search for wounded survivors. Kit-Sun tried to send him a telepathic warning, _Still dangerous. Come back._

Only minutes had passed before the ambulances and fire speeders began to arrive. EMTs rushed to aid the injured lying in the street while firefighters ran into the burning cantina. All the while, Kit-Sun's danger sense practically screamed at him. The Jedi had just enough time to shout, "It's a trap!" before the second, much more impressive explosion went off, tearing through the emergency vehicles lined up in the street and washing over the first-responders with fire. More bodies flew, tossed like leaves in the wind by the concussive wave.

Kit-Sun leapt down to the street, shielding his nose and mouth against the smoke with his cloak sleeve and squeezing his eyes shut to mere slits. "Master Ulasac!" he shouted, darting his gaze about the wreckage. His eyes stung and began to water as he stumbled through the haze. "Master Ulasac!"

"Over here, Kit-Sun!" the master's voice coughed back. Kit-Sun spun in the voice's direction and could just make out the shape of a Twi'lek, cloak aflame in several small places, dragging a civilian behind him.

With the Force fueling his legs, Kit-Sun rushed over to the Jedi master, taking his charge in a telekinetic hold and throwing his arm over his shoulders. Once they were safely away, the Jedi set the men gently down to the permacrete. "You should have waited, Master," Kit-Sun admonished, patting out the small fires on Ulasac's cloak. "I sensed more danger after the first explosion."

"A Jedi cannot sit idly by as events unfold," the Twi'lek replied between coughing fits. He must have inhaled a lot of smoke. "We either act against evil or evil will go on unabated, and our existence will be meaningless." He punctuated his words with another fit of coughing.

Changing the subject, Ulasac stood and said, "Perhaps you should see what you can sense here. The feelings should be especially strong so soon after the fact."

"Master," Kit-Sun said hesitantly. "I do not think it wise to try so soon. So much fear and pain lingering in the air, it can be overwhelming. If I'm not careful, the intensity of those emotions could draw me over to the dark side."

"Very well," the master nodded. "We'll wait. In the meantime, let's see what we can do to help these people."

###

They'd spent several hours making the rounds at every watering hole, gambling den, and flophouse in the district, laying down subtle hints that they were looking to score a supply of high explosives. Eventually they were pointed in the direction of a Duros dealer named Dobis who operated out of the Mynock's Haven cantina. He was a mere thug, a filthy wretch in sweat-stained spacer's garb that spoke terrible Basic and nearly incomprehensible Durese. Naturally, Ganhuff was chosen as the crew's spokesman for dealing with this slime.

Chewing on a fat, smelly cigarra tucked in the corner of his lipless mouth, Dobis slid into the booth at the back of the cantina, across the table from where the doctor sat. "I hear tell yous gen'lebeing's lookin' to throw maxi-big party. For right prices I cans supply primo noise makers for good deals."

Ganhuff made no move to indicate any interest in what the Duros had to say. "I find your quaint method of talking around the issue most annoying," he drawled, his face a mask of boredom. In truth his heart raced with anxiety as his thoughts kept wandering back to his dwindling supply of glitterstim he'd been rationing. Would he start to show signs of withdrawal here, in this crucial moment? He wasn't exactly matching wits with the scum, but the slightest tremor or tic could give the wrong impression and thus spell disaster. Forcing his hands to remain steady until the meeting adjourned was like willing a deck of sabacc cards to hold their values just a few seconds longer until all bets were placed. "Let us talk plainly. Nergon-Fourteen: do you have it? If not, can you get it?"

Dobis took the cigarra out of his mouth and chuckled, a rasping, bitten-off hacking sound that grated against the doctor's eardrums like something metal caught in a garbage disposal. "I gots lotsa that, sure. Is esspensive, though, no lie. How much you wan'?"

"Actually, we were wondering who else might've come to you with a similar request." The Duros' expression quickly changed to one of pure, unadulterated horror as his red eyes went wide and his mouth fell slack; in the booth behind him, Buruk held a blaster barrel pressed firmly to the back of his bald head.

"No ones," the arms dealer hissed. "I swears."

"Hm, that's a shame," the Mandalorian said conversationally. "Guess we'll just have to see what bounties are open on your head, then, since I really don't want to go putting a blaster bolt in your brainpan in front of all these people. CorSec must have _something_ on a _ge'hutuun_ like you."

"No please," Dobis said frantically. "Not CorSecs." He was positively shaking beneath Buruk's blaster barrel.

"You deal with the Drall Patriots?" Ganhuff demanded, taking the initiative ahead of his quivering hands. He really needed that share in the bounty if he was going to keep himself adequately spiced.

"No!" Dobis insisted, his voice cracking slightly.

"I can tell you're lying," Ganhuff growled, grabbing the collar of Dobis' spacesuit. Buruk shot him a surprised look over his hapless victim's shoulder. "Where do you find them?"

"Th-there's a drops-off point I makes deliveries to," the arms dealer stammered. "A caves in the Nomad Mountains. I can gives you coordinates."

"Of course you can," Ganhuff smiled obligingly, releasing his hold and patting the wrinkles out of Dobis' suit. "And a Hutt can offer me an interest-free loan—doesn't mean I'll believe him."

"You'll be coming with us," Buruk added, hustling the Duros out of his seat.

_TO BE CONTINUED..._


	21. TNT Part 2

The _Cuun'yaim_ swooped down below the layers of thick, grey clouds, banking lazily southward over the snow-covered city of Doaba Guerfel as it approached the Nomad Mountains of Corellia. The amber glow of the _Firefly_-class mid-bulk transport's main drive shone eerily through the early morning haze permeating the sky, painting the sleek skyscrapers at the city's edge a garish orange. The towering edifices stood in stark contrast to the more modest-sized buildings at the city's center, which—comprised of classical columns, arches, and domes—remained untouched by the light.

Coniferous trees covered the jagged mountainsides like an evergreen carpet, their needled branches bowed under the weight of heavy snow. Somewhere down there, within a network of caves, hid Corellia's most wanted criminal organization. Somewhere down there awaited the five hundred thousand-credit reward sought by the _Cuun'yaim_'s crew.

Buruk turned slightly in the pilot's seat to his partner, seated at the copilot's station beside him, where she leaned over the console, her gold eyes darting over the readings. "What have you got for me?" he asked.

"Can't pick out any life form readings besides the usual wildlife," Lynli reported without looking up. "The rock's just too thick for the signal to pass through."

"Well they're down there somewhere," Buruk muttered, manipulating the control yoke to circle the ship around for another pass. "Can you find the cave openings for me?"

"Plenty," she replied dryly, twitching her lekku in annoyance. "Only a few hundred randomly spaced around the mountain range… and that's after eliminating the ones too tiny for a Drall to squeeze through."

"Lot of escape routes," the Mandalorian observed unperturbed. "Have to put our contractor to work sealing most of them before we move in." He referred to Qate Jularc, the Zabrak demolitions expert and fellow _Mando'ad_ they'd hired on Iridonia to help them track down the Drall terrorists by way of their explosives. "Log the coordinates to our datapads and I'll set her down so we can get to work."

"Aye Cap'n."

###

Ganhuff's hands shook and his heart raced as he paced back and forth in his quarters. _Fifty-two hours, twenty-seven minutes_, he thought to himself. That was how long it had been since his last dose of glitterstim and his body ached to receive a fresh hit. He tried to fight it, breathing slowly through his nostrils and forcing his hands to lay still at his sides. The effort caused sweat to bead on his brow, running into his eyes and making them sting. He didn't care.

All he wanted was that sweet fix but at the same time, he wanted to prolong his hated sobriety. An accomplished gambler—he'd won the very ship they flew on, by Providence!—and here he was, stuck in a game he could only lose. Sometimes he thought it would be easier simply to beat his brains against the bulkhead and be done with it. At least then, he wouldn't have to worry about the bounty on his own head.

Fifty-two hours, twenty-eight minutes. Was his chrono actually slowing down to torture him longer? His head hurt, it made it hard to think. He needed to think clearly if he was going to beat this, but to think clearly he needed to make the pain go away, which required him to give in, negating his entire purpose. Oh how the universe and whatever power ruled over it mocked Doctor Ganhuff Riscan!

Fifty-two hours, twenty-nine minutes.

Maalku, the Gand Findsman, had offered on numerous occasions to restrain the doctor during his bouts of withdrawal. Each time Ganhuff refused. Without his own willful effort, there was little point. _He_ had to be the one to beat his addiction.

Fifty-two hours, thirty minutes.

But in the end, it was all futile anyway. Ganhuff practically flew to the cupboard inset in the wall, throwing the doors wide as his quivering hands darted in to grab the small black vial that contained the cause of and solution to all of his problems. Unscrewing the cap, he extracted the thin thread of glitterstim. The crystal strand flared a brilliant blue when it entered the light, activating its potent narcotic effects.

"What are you doing?" a voice demanded from the doorway.

He spun like a child caught in some heinous act, wide eyes accentuating the dark circles beneath them, to find Qate. The Zabrak woman stood with her fists on her hips, glaring at him with deep blue eyes, bluer than the drug burning in his hand. "You're a glitbiter?" she said accusingly.

He could see the disgust on her face and it mirrored what he felt in his heart. He was a surgeon, and a damn good one too, but all anyone could see of him was the addiction. She stood another moment or two, just staring at him with that look that said he was garbage, something she'd scrape off the bottom of her boot if she managed to hold down her gorge. Then she turned and stalked off toward the cargo hold without another word.

Shame filled Ganhuff as he stared at the glowing blue thread he held between thumb and forefinger with half-dead eyes, a shame so strong he _genuinely_ toyed with the idea of a long walk out the airlock without a suit. Why didn't Buruk just turn him in for the bounty already?

He glanced at his chrono. Fifty-two hours, thirty-three minutes; in another second the dose would burn itself out and be ruined, worthless. In the end, he was weak, and popped the still glowing crystals into his mouth, swallowing in one gulp.

###

When they landed, Aerek joined Buruk in the cargo hold, helping him put on his armor while Maalku sat cross-legged atop a stack of cargo containers, presumably meditating, and Lynli watched the man and child interact in fascination.

"_Beskar'gam_ is very important to a _Mando'ad_," the Mandalorian explained to the boy as he slipped the armored vest over his head. When he settled the iron's familiar weight on his armorweave flightsuit's shoulders, he continued, "It's been a part of our identity for thousands of years, long before even _Te Kandosii Mand'alor_, and is one of the Six Actions we live our lives by."

"_Bajur, beskar'gam_," Aerek readily recited the first line of the _Resol'nare_.

"_Jatne_," Buruk replied, smiling down at him as the boy handed him his gauntlets.

When Qate stormed in through the aft hatch from the common area, they all turned their heads at her approach. The Zabrak fixed Buruk with a deadly stare and marched right up to him, poking a strong finger into his chest plate. "You never told me the doctor was a glitbiter," she accused.

"I didn't tell you a lot of things about my crew," he replied coolly.

"He's not coming out with us," she said. The look on her face left no room for debate. "I'm not going to work with him, not on a job this important."

"The Doc's come through for us plenty of times, even while he was spiced."

"Buruk, Roklan! _Nu draar!_"

For a minute Buruk worked his jaw, biting back any impulsive response. Eventually, he said, "All right. He stays aboard the ship." He turned to the boy and said, "_Aer'ika, _lock the doctor in his cabin, _bal_ guard the door with a _mirsh'tracy'ur_."

"_Elek_," Aerek nodded and headed aft.

After watching him go, Qate turned back to Buruk, eying him closely, and asked, "You're teaching him our culture and language?"

"That's right," he answered, strapping on his pistol belt over the red Journeyman Protector sash he'd acquired on Concord Dawn.

"Have you given him the _gai bal manda_ yet?" she pressed.

"… No," he admitted. "Not yet."

"What's that?" Lynli asked, curious.

"It's—" Qate began.

"It's nothing," Buruk cut her off. Turning back to the Zabrak, he said, "Get suited up. We've got some tunnels to collapse."

###

Kit-Sun brought a mug of fresh coffeine to Master Ulasac. Since the cantina bombing, they'd hit a dead end in the investigation and were forced to leave things in the able hands of Inspector Horn and the officers of CorSec, and Kit-Sun had felt the frustration flowing from the Twi'lek. He now knelt beside Horn's desk in the small office adjacent to the crowded precinct of One CorSec Plaza, eyes closed, meditating in hopes of regaining his center. The younger Jedi started to turn away, to offer someone else the hot cup in his hand, when the master said, "Yes, I'll have some, thanks."

Smiling sheepishly, Kit-Sun handed the mug down to the kneeling Jedi and said, "Inspector Horn has a team combing over the blast site and his officers are interviewing witnesses as we speak." After a moment's pause, he asked, "A credit for your wisdom, Master?"

Ulasac opened his eyes and smiled in return, showing pointed teeth, as he reached out to take the offering. "It would cost you a bit more than that, my friend," he chuckled, blowing steam from the mug's rim. Kit-Sun leaned against the desk while he waited for the master to continue. After savoring a long sip, Ulasac said, "It's a strange thing for a Jedi to feel powerless. I make no secret I was granted mastery for my skill with a blade; inaction does not do me any good, but this is their arena, not mine. I must trust them to do their job well."

"Fear not, Master," Kit-Sun said assuringly. "As distasteful as it is to resort to such measures, I'm sure the huge bounty CorSec has posted will go a long way in shortening the hunt."

"Bounty hunters…," Ulasac whispered, treating the words as though they left a foul taste in his mouth. "Practically criminals themselves."

"Yes Master," Kit-Sun agreed reflexively.

"Tell me, Kit-Sun, is it habit that makes you share my opinions so much?" the Twi'lek asked, eyeing the younger Jedi.

"No Master," he answered with a benign wave of the hand, grinning all the while.

"Don't try your mind tricks on me, boy," Ulasac growled with mock sternness. "… What were we talking about again?"

Kit-Sun sniggered and after a brief pause, they broke out laughing together.

###

It took an hour traipsing through the mountains while Qate set up for the big bang. Snow clung to her kama and Buruk's cloak as they snapped in the screaming wind hundreds of kilometers above sea level. While the Mandalorians' sealed armor kept them warm, Maalku and Lynli had bundled up in heavy coats and thermal stockings for her lekku; sometimes it just paid to be a mammal.

Rather than collapse the multitude of openings themselves, and thereby risk a total cave-in, Qate opted for a few strategically located charges that would trigger a series of avalanches in the right places and bury the Dralls' possible escape routes beneath hundreds of tons of snow.

"This is my favorite part," the Zabrak said, and Buruk could just picture the smirk under the grey _buy'ce_ she wore. They stood just within the mouth of a cave within her designated "safe zone" and she turned an arming key on her detonator. Looking around at the others, she said, "Those without helmets may want to cover their ears."

With that, she stabbed her index finger down on the firing button and a massive thunderclap echoed through the mountain range. The tunnel began to vibrate, rumbling so loud Buruk could feel it in his bones. Anyone out on the mountain would be in for a world of hurt.

Turning down the tunnel, Buruk hefted his blaster rifle and said, "Okay, I'll go first. Lynli, you and Maalku stay behind me. Qate, watch our tails."

"Hold on, how come we have to stay between you two?" Lynli demanded.

"Because we've got armor, _di'kut_," Qate chided. "You want to catch a stray blaster bolt in that soft, delicate skin?"

"Wouldn't be my first time," the Lynli replied defiantly.

"_Ahem!_" Buruk cleared his throat. "Ladies, please, we have a job to do." Without another word, he shouldered his rifle and started forward. _This is going to be a lovely trip_, he thought.

Glaring one last time at Qate, Lynli turned and followed, gripping her blaster pistol tightly, while Maalku shuffled along behind her with his shockprod staff. They made their way along the tunnel, creeping toward whatever lair the Drall Patriots had dug for themselves. Dralls were natural burrowers so it only made sense for them to choose a cave for their hideout.

The deeper they went underground, the warmer it felt, until finally Buruk had to switch off his suit's heating unit. They had to be getting close; someone was artificially raising the cave's temperature. He entered a large chamber with a simple wooden table in the center surrounded by several ramshackle chairs and crates presumably utilized in the same fashion. Fusion lanterns filled the room with a soft amber glow that reminded him of the _Cuun'yaim_'s main drive, reflecting off the slick walls.

Two other tunnels branched off from the room. Buruk signaled with his hands and Qate tapped Maalku on the shoulder, indicating for him to follow her down the tunnel to the right. Buruk and Lynli made their way into the left. _Probably best to keep these two separated_, he thought.

They came upon what must have been the command center, totally wrecked beyond all repair. Dozens of smashed computers and their component parts lay scattered about the floor, filing cabinets sat overturned, their empty drawers hanging open, and several tall metal trashcans sat at the room's center, filled to the brim with molten slag that was all that remained of their hard drives and data disks, every possible piece of information on their entire terror campaign. "I can still feel heat coming off them," Lynli said, holding her hand a few centimeters from one of the blackened cylinders. "They couldn't have gotten far."

"Must have bugged out as soon as they heard the avalanche," Buruk replied, sweeping his rifle across the chamber. He tried to report their findings to Qate over his helmet comm but got nothing but static; they were too far underground.

Suddenly a blaster bolt whined through the air, spanging off the cave wall next to Buruk's helmet. He snapped his head in the direction of incoming fire and dropped to his knee, sighting down the barrel of his rifle. A small furry Drall with a holdout blaster crouched at the mouth of another tunnel. Buruk fired off a shot, his weapon set to stun, grazing the little creature. It dropped the blaster from suddenly limp fingers as its right side went numb and turned to run, hobbling down the tunnel.

Lynli dashed up and grabbed the Drall by the scruff of its neck, avoiding a set of sharp claws aimed clumsily at her face. Lifting the little half-stunned creature bodily into the air, she slammed him against the rocky cave wall and demanded, "Where are the others?"

"Far away from here," he hissed weakly in her face. "You'll never find them. You can't stop us."

"That's a load of _osik_," Buruk said. "Only one place they can be right now. Trying to dig their way out. Cuff him and leave him here."

###

If he'd thought hiking across the mountains laying explosives had been time-consuming work, clearing the tunnels and caves within had been downright grueling. It took hours but eventually they had rounded up twenty angry Dralls, trussed them up, and herded them out into the bright midday sun and onto the _Cuun'yaim_.

It had been quite a scene, marching them all in through the front doors of One CorSec Plaza at gunpoint. All eyes in the spacious lobby turned on them as Buruk approached the desk sergeant. "Can I help you?" the uniformed officer asked, raising an eyebrow as he cast a look over the crowd of furry little aliens.

"Tell whoever's in charge that we've got the Drall Patriots, the whole lot of them," he replied, removing his helmet and tucking it under his arm.

"Inspector Horn will be with you shortly," the desk sergeant said. At his signal, a group of officers quickly appeared to escort the Dralls to be processed.

Presently, a uniformed man with dark hair and grey eyes stepped out of the door through which the terrorists had disappeared, followed by a man with long black hair and a red beard, and a green-skinned Twi'lek, both of whom wore long brown robes.

Jetiise_!_ Buruk's mind screamed, and his body tensed up as his hand instinctively moved for one of his blasters. He forced it to keep moving, trying to cover the action up by crossing his arms over his armored chest; the motion looked _very_ unnatural and not a little suspicious.

"I'm Inspector Rostek Horn," the CorSec officer introduced himself, offering his hand to shake. Buruk took it and Horn continued, "These men are Jedi Nurt Ulasac and Kit-Sun Wolfgana; they were assisting us in the investigation of the Dralls' terrorist activities."

"A pleasure," the Mandalorian replied curtly as they bowed respectfully. He recognized both names from the list he, Lynli, and Maalku had acquired in the Jedi archives, and the Twi'lek had been the one to chase them through the Temple on Coruscant.

While the human offered a friendly smile, he could feel the Twi'lek's gaze boring into him and he willed himself to remain calm. _The six of staves and the seven of sabers makes positive thirteen. The eight of coins and Balance make negative three…_ His hands practically twitched for his guns. No doubt the Jedi recognized him too but no way could he risk a fight now; he wasn't prepared for a confrontation with one, let alone two of them. "About the reward…?" he asked aloud.

"Of course, I'm authorized to transfer the sum over to you now," Horn said. "Your credit chip please?"

Buruk handed it over and Horn loaded it into his datapad, tapped a few keys to scan it. "Bounty Hunter," the Twi'lek Jedi, Ulasac, said by way of gaining his attention. "That's a rather distinctive set of armor you wear. Mandalorian, is it not?"

"That's right," Buruk answered cautiously. "Pieced it together on Galidraan." It wasn't a lie, after all. He'd gathered parts from each of his fallen comrades' armor, ensuring as he did that each one was made of genuine _beskar_, until he'd collected a complete set, including a new helmet to replace the one that had been practically cleaved in half.

"That explains it, with what happened to the Mandalorians there."

Lynli put a restraining hand on Buruk's shoulder. "A tragedy, that," he replied simply, refusing to rise to the bait. "Nobody even stopped to bury the poor sods."

"It was indeed gruesome."

After a moment, Horn made a face, tapped a few more keys, then looked up from the datapad. "Buruk Kelborn, yes?"

"That's right."

"Sir, it says here your guild license has been revoked."

Buruk's eyes went wide. "What?" he exclaimed, the Jedi momentarily forgotten, and each of his companions echoed him, even the stoic Maalku.

"I'm afraid so, sir," Horn replied, turning the datapad over to show him. Sure enough, there was his guild profile, with the words "license revoked" displayed in big, bright red letters.

Buruk's shoulders slumped and he face burned. "I'm afraid this means CorSec can only deliver ten percent of the posted bounty," Horn continued. "I'm sorry, sir." With that, he made the credit transfer, handed the chip back to Buruk, and turned with the Jedi to walk away.

The Mandalorian turned to his comrades, weathering their glares. "How could you get your guild license revoked?" Lynli demanded.

"'Forgetting' to turn Riscan in to the Judicials on Coruscant is probably what did it," he pointed out. To Qate he said, "Sorry about this Qate. You'll get your cut and we'll take you back to Iridonia first thing."

"Oh no you won't," she said, shaking her head. "You owe me, Buruk. And until I get my two hundred thousand, you're not getting rid of me."

"Two hundred thousand?" he asked indignantly. "Last I did the math, thirty-five percent of five hundred thousand was only a hundred seventy five thousand!"

"Consider it interest and late fees," she sneered.

Buruk just sighed and rolled his eyes. Yeah, this was going to be a great trip all right.


	22. Boys Will Be Boys

Buruk stood silently in the corner of the _Cuun'yaim_'s cargo hold, arms crossed over his armored chest, as he watched over his charge's physical training. The boy, Aerek Orlan, had been an orphan living in the treacherous undercity of Coruscant when Buruk had found him. He was only eleven years old. He had no parents, no family, and no friends. He was completely alone in the galaxy; it would have been easy for anyone to give in to despair under those circumstances, but Aerek's spirit and will to survive were stronger than that, and they'd driven him to eke out an existence in that duracrete tomb of a world.

_Why did I take him with me?_ Buruk wondered, his brow furrowing as he watched the boy start his fifth set of crunches. Perhaps it was whimsy, but he didn't think so. Perhaps he saw something in Aerek, a potential. A great _Mand'alor_ had once said, "As long as one Mandalorian lives, we will survive." Maybe that was it; maybe Buruk thought he was doing his part to keep the Mandalorian legacy alive.

It was a legacy one of their own people had tried to destroy.

###

Eighteen years ago; Dantooine

"Hey come on Goran, bring it back!" Buruk shouted, chasing after his friend.

"That's not the point of the game, Buruk!" Goran Kex shouted back over his shoulder, laughing as he kicked a bolo-ball along ahead of him. "You have to catch me and take it!"

"_Haar'chak_, I said give it back!" Buruk cried, putting on a burst of speed. "It's mine!" He'd had the ball first, after all, so that made it his to play with.

They wove their way through the Mandalorians' village. The collection of domed huts made from woven green wood and mud was arranged defensively atop a ridge overlooking the rolling, grassy plains. Smoke rose from cooking fires and the forge chimney of Kex's father, drifting on the wind to mingle with the fluffy white banks overhead. Fellow _Mando'ade_ of all ages and races went about their business as they passed, stepping out of the rampaging boys' way.

Eventually Buruk caught up to Goran and, leaping desperately with arms outstretched, tackled his friend to the ground. They tumbled, limbs interwoven, kicking and scraping at each other. The ball forgotten, they continued to wrestle in the dirt until a familiar voice said, "You guys are so immature."

They looked up to find Jango Fett, four years their senior, standing over them with arms crossed over his chest, shaking his head in dismay. "Isn't there something you should be doing?" he asked.

They grinned up at him, dirt smudged on their eleven-year-old faces. "Come on Jango, how about a tussle?" Goran asked.

"Yeah, you're not too good to play with us now that you're _Mand'alor_, are you?" Buruk added.

"I don't have time to waste with a couple of _ad'ike_ like you." Ever since Jaster Mereel had died and Jango had assumed leadership of the Mandalorians, he'd taken himself extra seriously. It was said that in ancient times, when the _Mand'alor_ died, the new _Mand'alor_ would take up the former's mask or helmet as a sign that their authority now passed to them. In that vein, Jango had painted his armor in the black and red style worn by Jaster before his death.

Goran blew a raspberry at the older boy. "You're not that much older, you know!"

"But you're still two years away from the _verd'goten_, so that means you're still just a pair of kids," Jango snapped back, planting his fists on his hips. "I've got work to do; try to stay out of trouble."

"Fine, go be boring!" Goran called after him. "We'll just have fun without you!"

"You know, he's got a lot of responsibility riding on him," Buruk pointed out. "Being _Mand'alor_'s a big job."

"Oh don't go defending him," Goran said, tugging lightly on Buruk's braid. "He deserves it for being a snob."

Buruk punched his friend in the arm as hard as he could, sending him reeling. "How many times have I told you not to do that?"

"Hehehe, you should just cut it like I do." He ran a hand pompously over his bristly, light brown crop. "Anyway, since we can't get a _meshgeroya_ game going, what do you want to do? Dad said we have the whole day off so he can get caught up on _beskar'gam_ orders, so we better enjoy it; it'll be right back to training tomorrow."

"I know exactly what we should do," Buruk grinned devilishly.

###

The boys stood perched atop a ridge overlooking a massive temple ruin. It stood in a shallow valley just over a kilometer from the village, dominating the skyline with its slate grey towers jutting up from the landscape. Most of the local farmers on Dantooine insisted the place was haunted, referring to it in hushed whispers as if merely speaking of the place would visit some curse upon them. The _Mando'ade_ believed none of it, though; they'd spent thousands of years unburdening themselves of superstitions and ghost stories and they weren't about to let a bunch of frightened Rimmers change that. Nonetheless, they'd forbidden their children from setting foot in the ruins of the Jedi enclave alone.

_Which is all the more reason to want to check it out_, Buruk thought scanning the crumbling, once-majestic structure with a pair of macrobinoculars.

"What do you see?" Goran asked, shifting the weight of his backpack. They'd thought to bring some basic survival equipment and rations with them, _ret'lini_.

"A few kath hounds prowling around," Buruk reported as he swept the macrobinoculars about the courtyard. "They shouldn't be hard to get by; just stay quiet and downwind."

"Don't I always?" his friend asked with a cocky smile. "Find us a way in?"

"Hole in the wall about four meters up the western parapet." He passed the macrobinoculars to Goran and pointed. "See?"

"Got it."

Buruk replaced the macrobinoculars in Goran's pack and started down the ridge, his fingers groping about the rock face for hand and toeholds. At the bottom, he rubbed his scraped palms on his pant legs and turned back to the ridge, reaching out to catch the pack when his friend dropped it, hefting it on his own shoulders. Once Goran had made it down, they crept through a shallow, weeded channel that had once been a decorative stream toward the waiting temple.

The courtyard had overgrown with sickle grass and rotting trees, choking the branching path leading to the entrances with vegetation. Massive circular depressions that could only be ancient craters eroded by time spoke of a great battle that had once taken place here, long ago. The roof and a portion of the southern wall had partially collapsed, scattering crumbling blocks of stone across the lawn. One of the aloof animals lay sprawled atop on of them, sunning itself, oblivious to their approach.

Buruk's heart hammered in his chest as they picked their way carefully through the weeds, stopping every few seconds to wait and listen; they moved only when they heard the shifting of grass that signaled a kath hound's movement in order to disguise their own noise. One mistake and the predators would be on them before they could say _osik_. He buried his fear deep within his chest, forcing calm, fluid motions from his muscles. If nothing else, his father had taught him not to flinch in the face of danger. A warrior had to be able to work through his fear, and Buruk—above all else—wanted to prove himself a capable warrior.

A light breeze wafted through the tall grass, bringing the sour meat smell of a kath hound's breath to their nostrils. They were predatory quadrupeds, about the size of a large dog, with sharp eyes and jaws filled with rows of jagged teeth. They bore thin coats of brown and grey fur that helped camouflage them in the Dantooine grasslands, and a pair of boney lumps crowned their skulls, the vestigial remains of the horns borne by their larger cousins that roamed the savannas.

Behind him, Goran let out a low hiss. Buruk snapped his head around, eyes wide with horror as only one thought entered his mind. He saw him sucking on his forearm, his own eyes darting about the tall grass. _You didn't_, Buruk mouthed silently.

Goran nodded apologetically and revealed the scratch on his arm, fresh blood welling up where he'd cut himself on the sharp vegetation, and he quickly clamped his mouth over it again.

Buruk motioned with his head for them to keep moving. The kath hounds would smell the blood, no question about it, and track it to its source; they had to get ahead of their pursuit and fast. A chorus of snarling sounded all around them and they started running, crashing through the weeds as fast as they could.

"Get the grapple ready!" Goran shouted, pumping his arms as he ran.

Buruk flung the pack from one shoulder and swung it around in front of him. Thrusting his free hand inside, he groped through the contents, pulling out a wound bundle of rope with a heavy pronged hook tied to one end.

They broke through the edge of the weeds, skidding to a halt at the base of the temple wall. Buruk flung the grapple with all his might toward the hole, praying to the _manda_ that it caught. Goran turned to face the grass surrounding the ruins and pulled the small survival knife he kept in his pocket. "Don't do anything _jare'la_!" Buruk ordered, tugging experimentally at the rope. It held and he hauled himself up as fast as he could.

"Take your time, there's no rush," his friend replied dryly, brandishing the knife in anticipation as more snarls filled the air, getting closer.

Buruk focused everything on climbing. "Come on!" he shouted down from the hole.

Clamping the knife between his teeth, Goran turned and lunged for the dangling rope just as the first kath hound broke out into the open. Straining his muscles, Buruk began to reel him in as he pulled himself hand over hand up the wall, escaping the predator's jaws barely by a centimeter. His heart skipped a beat as he heard them snap together just short of their intended target.

Gasping for breath, they sat resting in the small pool of light shining through the hole in the wall when the terror of just a moment prior passed and a fit of laughter came over them. "Nice going, _di'kut_," Buruk giggled, lightly shoving his friend. "Master of stealth, you are."

"Hey, I was following _your_ lead!" he replied indignantly, shoving back. "Why'd you pick such a _dini'la_ approach?"

"Sorry, we didn't have any _sen'trase_ in the survival pack." They both started laughing harder then; they may have liked to exaggerate each other's strength but they held no illusions about the idea of a couple of eleven-year-olds trying to run around with a pair of thirty-kilo jetpacks. "And just what did you think you were going to do with that little pocketknife of yours?"

"Die well?" Goran shrugged.

"And leave me to explain why you got eaten up by a pack of hungry kath hounds? No way, _sha'buir_," Buruk said, shaking his head emphatically.

Having caught their breath, they reeled in the rope and replaced the grapple in the pack. Digging through its contents, Goran then removed a pair of glowrods, passed one to Buruk, and settled the pack's weight back on his shoulders. They shone their thin beams about the corridor, illuminating some areas while the darkness seemed to devour the light in others, casting even deeper shadows.

Shaggy grey moss covered the ancient stone walls and the stagnant air smelled stale and musty, like being underground. It felt like the enclave existed in a vacuum, their footsteps sounding unnaturally muted as they failed to produce the faintest echo. "This place is incredible," Goran whispered, and even his voice almost failed to carry through the perfect stillness.

A shiver ran up Buruk's spine and he realized it felt colder than it should have been; without any circulation, and in the middle of summer, it should have been blisteringly hot. He wasn't overly concerned, as he couldn't see his breath yet, but it still puzzled him.

They wandered the moldering corridors for some time, Buruk leaving a chalk mark at each turn to show their way. At one point, they came across a large round chamber with twelve plastoid chairs strewn about in a rough circle, their upholstery long since rotted away; a council room of some sort, they had guessed. In the room adjacent, they found several old computer terminals and work benches, ancient tools and electronics scattered across their surfaces. Dust and corrosion coated the surfaces of most, but some appeared to be still usable; in typical Mandalorian fashion, they gathered these up in the backpack, not about to let anything go to waste.

Beyond that was a garden that had grown wild, overtaking the path that led around its perimeter. A single massive tree dominated the chamber, reaching up with its highest branches like a worshiper reaching up to the heavens, growing out through an open skylight in the ceiling. Only thin rays of sunlight filtered through its broad leaves, reflecting off dust motes dancing in the air.

What sounded like a faint voice caught Buruk's attention, like a whisper at the edge of hearing, unintelligible but distinct. "What was that?" he asked, grabbing Goran by the sleeve.

"Pfft, don't go trying that old trick," his friend scoffed. "You're not going to scare me."

"I'm not playing," Buruk insisted, tugging the other boy along. "It came from this direction." Eventually they came upon a crumbling staircase that led down to a lower level. "It must've come from down there."

"You mean the dark and creepy cellar?" Goran sneered, wiggling his fingers in the air like spider legs. "Oooooo…"

Buruk just rolled his eyes and plunged forward, picking his way carefully down the dilapidated steps. Scything his glowrod back and forth, he took in the enclave's sublevel. The moss coating the walls was thicker here and water could be heard dripping in the distance. Gnarled roots snaked down from the ceiling, swaying in the breezeless tunnels almost as if they were alive, waiting to reach out and grab one of the boys. The chill worsened and Buruk could actually see their breath vaporizing before them. Something skittered in the darkness, like a thousand fingernails drumming on a piece of slate. They both jumped at the sound, then through dubious glances in each other's direction and continued onward.

They came across several small dormitory-style rooms, some with bunks still intact, mummified corpses lying in their beds in whatever positions they'd fallen asleep in when disaster struck. "This is where they lived," Buruk whispered, as though afraid his voice would disturb the lingering spirits from their rest. "The _Jetiise_ lived here, long ago. Just kids like us." He bore them no animosity, never thought them deserving of their fate. He didn't know any better then.

After the defeat of _Te Ani'la Mand'alor_, thousands of years ago, several clans had come to Dantooine in hopes that the rich game and farmland would help ease the transition from wartime to peace. Some succeeded, living in relative harmony with their _Jetiise_ neighbors, while others became little more than raiders, much like the Death Watch had today. One day, a Sith Lord called Darth Malak came and bombarded the enclave from orbit, laying waste to the once grand temple and killing all inside.

"Heirs to their own warrior tradition, like us, cut down before they even had the chance to draw their sabers," Goran added, somewhat poetically. He had a knack for that sometimes, something Buruk envied; he could express himself well when the situation moved him. "A most ignoble end." Not bad for a simple blacksmith's son.

The skittering came again and they both spun around, startled. "Let's get out of here," Buruk suggested. They headed back the way that had come, only to find their path blocked.

Centered in the beam of their glowrods stood a trio of insects as large as they were, with shiny black carapaces with blood-red underbellies that matched their bulbous compound eyes. Laigreks. They chittered savagely, their razor-sharp mandibles snapping open and closed with the speed of a jigsaw. The boys began backing away slowly when one looked up, directly into the light, and hissed, long and loud. It caught its companions' attention and they followed suit, rearing up to brandish their front most pair of sickle-like legs, then all three charged, lashing out.

Buruk and Goran leapt back as one, just out of range of the deadly swiping limbs. The laigreks let loose with a frustrated shriek, prepared to charge again, and the two boys turned and ran. They had no idea where they were going, their only known route blocked by the giant insects whose claws drummed rhythmically against the floor all too close behind them.

They ran and ran and ran, never sparing a glance over their shoulders. As the noise of their pursuit grew, Buruk guessed they'd picked up several more followers along the way and pushed himself that much harder. "Sure would be nice if we had a blaster!" he huffed, pumping his arms furiously.

"If wishes were banthas…" Goran answered resignedly beside him. "Some warriors we turned out to be, huh?"

"Think of it as a _dajun'la tok'kad_."

They rounded a corner and came face to face with three more laigreks.

"Your strategy just landed us right in the _tiingilar_, _Te Di'kutla Mand'alor_."

Shifting directions without hesitation, Buruk grabbed Goran by the shirt and yanked him through a door to their right. There was no power to shut it so they each grabbed a portion of the lip and pulled with all their might, dragging the ancient, rusted door down out of its track. The heavy panel crashed heavily to the floor, smashing through a laigrek's midsection with a crunch, leaving its front half thrashing about, and screeching wildly.

Without thinking, Buruk reached into the survival pack, pulled out a heavy _beskar_ pry bar and savagely beat the remaining life out of the creature. Spattered with goo and gasping for breath, he staggered back a few steps from the half corpse and dropped the pry bar with a clang.

"We have a problem," Goran said behind him.

Buruk spun, wide eyes darting about the room for danger. Seeing none, he forced himself to calm down, took a few deep breaths. That's when he realized, "We're trapped!" The room itself was mostly barren, featureless. There were no cabinets that might have contained supplies; only a few plastoid chairs lay scattered about. The comlink they'd brought with them in case of emergency was useless underground; its signal wouldn't penetrate the dense rock and soil around them. Outside, the laigreks scratched against the door, trying to get in.

Resigning themselves, they settled in to wait. They had a few packets of _gihaal_ to eat and bottles of water; they could ration these, along with the power packs in their glowrods. Aside from that, they had nothing useful; a knife and pry bar would do no good against a swarm of laigreks, so they either had to wait for them to lose interest and go away, or for the adults to come rescue them. Some warriors, indeed.

###

Hours passed. Goran's chrono indicated it was late evening, almost sunset. The laigreks still scratched at the door, trying to find a way in. Their glowrods were starting to fade, no matter how little they used them. "I'll stand the first watch," he volunteered, taking up the pry bar in his hands and swinging it experimentally. Buruk simply nodded and lay down to sleep.

He dreamed, as he often did, of his father, Vizsla. He'd been left all alone, and terrified of remaining so, when the Overlord adopted him on Concord Dawn seven years ago. He looked up to Vizsla, expecting his newfound father to dispel those fears, but even though he was treated like the man's own son, Buruk still felt isolated among the Death Watch. They weren't family; they were simply a collection of brigands united by a warlord's promise of plunder. After five years, he could no longer tell the difference between his father and his minions, and he disowned him, fled, and joined with his sworn enemy.

Jaster Mereel took Buruk in, assigning Goran's father as his guardian, and he finally felt he belonged, that his presence and theirs was utterly, completely, undeniably right and perfect. Sometimes he felt shame at abandoning Vizsla, his _dar'buir_, that he'd acted selfishly. He owed him everything, his life and—more importantly, he thought—his identity, his place in the _manda_. But he had friends like Jango and Goran to help convince him he'd done the right thing. They were the family he sought all along.

And Goran was his brother.

Buruk awoke several hours later when Goran shook him slightly. "Look!" he hissed, pointing up where the back wall met the ceiling.

Buruk rubbed sleep from his eyes and sat up in the darkness, letting his eyes adjust. Faintly he was aware the laigreks were still scratching at the door. _Damn they're persistence_, he thought. Then he saw it. The narrowest beam of moonlight shone through a crack near the ceiling, poking its thin silver finger into the room. Buruk smiled and clapped Goran on the back. "We're free!" he whispered triumphantly. Then, turning serious, he ordered, "I'll dig, you rest. There might be a kath hound or two waiting up there by the time we can squeeze our way through."

"_'Lek_," Goran yawned, handing him the chrono and laying back, closed his eyes.

Buruk scampered over to the wall, setting one of the chairs beneath the beam of light. With Goran's knife, he began scraping and digging at the tiny crack, enlarging it by millimeters each time, carefully so as not to snap the blade or leave it overly dulled. For hours he worked at it, intent on escape, determined to get his friend—his _brother_—out of there. Eventually he was able to fit the end of the pry bar into the widening crack, leveraging it open more and more. Pebbles and chips tumbled down to the floor below, collecting in an ever-growing pile around the chair legs.

Around midnight, he was able to fit his head through. He smiled up at the full moon gleaming down on the Dantooine grasslands, pulled his head back in, and got back to work.

By dawn, it was wide enough to squeeze his shoulders through. "Up and at 'em, Goran," he called. The other boy snapped awake, sitting up with a jolt. "Hand me the macrobinoculars so I can take a look around."

With a quick survey of their surroundings, Buruk ensured the way was clear. Hefting the survival pack, he shoved it out through the opening and climbed up after it, scraping his arms and legs as he pulled himself out onto the coarse grass lining the enclave's base. Without pause, he turned back and reached back into the hole, taking Goran by the wrist and helping him up, pulling him free. Together they ran through the tall weeds back to the Mandalorian village, laughing all the way as though to them the entire ordeal were nothing more than one big game.

###

Back in the present, Buruk let a wry smile grace his scarred features as he remembered. Those were better times, happier times, and reliving them only strengthened his confusion over just _why_ Goran—_Kex! He's not your childhood friend anymore!_—would betray them.

"Hey Buruk, are you okay?"

Buruk snapped his attention back to reality. He looked down at Aerek, wiping sweat from his brow and breathing heavily. It seemed he'd finished his exercises without him noticing. "It's nothing," he insisted.

"You're crying," Aerek pointed out with a raised eyebrow. "Just what the heck were you woolgathering about?"

Buruk's hand shot to his face and his glove came away damp. His cheeks burned with embarrassment for a moment, then he looked back to the boy and had an epiphany. He understood just why he'd taken him under his wing: he saw himself in Aerek. The boy had shared that same loneliness he'd felt, that same burning need for family and camaraderie that had driven him into the arms of the _Mando'ade_. He wanted—no, _needed_—to give Aerek a place to belong.

After a moment he let out a long breath he hadn't even known he'd been holding and, composing himself, simply said, "Just remembering something from a long time ago that made me very sad. I'll tell you more about it someday." Then, placing a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder, he squeezed once, affectionately, and headed up the staircase to his quarters. He wouldn't want Lynli or the others to see him like this, after all.


	23. Boogie Woogie Bright Land Showdown

Lynli stared pensively through the forward viewport at the rocky brown Outer Rim world standing out against the star-speckled backdrop of space. As it slowly grew from a disk the size of her fingernail to a massive sphere looming over her, her lekku twitched anxiously in time with her racing heart. Beside her, Buruk's hands danced across the controls, seemingly oblivious to his partner, flicking a switch on the comm to mute the standard prerecorded Message to Spacers welcoming them.

"Hey." She jumped, tore her attention away from the viewport, snapped her head around to face him. "Everything okay?" he asked, though his tone said he already knew it wasn't. He'd turned his head toward her while he kept the steering yoke steady, holding her gaze with his. He had a look of… what? Concern?

Lynli sighed, leaning back heavily in the copilot's seat. "I don't know," she admitted. She had mixed feelings about coming here, to Ryloth, her species' homeworld. She wasn't even sure it was _her_ homeworld. "I'm not exactly thrilled about this."

"I understand," he said. "It's an ugly business I'm getting myself into here. You don't have to—"

"It's fine." Typical, self-centered Buruk. He thought she was talking about his reasons for coming here, but while she didn't like those either, it wasn't what bothered her now. She turned back to the viewport.

Down there would be a million people who looked just like her, but she felt no connection to them. Did she have family somewhere down there? Parents? If so, why did they giver her up, cast her away, and—more to the point—why was she sold into slavery? There probably weren't any answers for her down there anyway, in the narrow twilight band running along the planet's terminator line. That didn't preclude her from looking, but it wasn't the reason she and the _Cuun'yaim_'s crew were here.

Somewhere down there was a Jedi, one of those responsible for massacring the Mandalorians on Galidraan. And Buruk had come to repay her in kind.

###

Slavery: it had plagued the distant Outer Rim world of Ryloth for many thousands of years, beginning—as it had for many cultures across the galaxy—with prisoners taken as the spoils of tribal warfare. Once the Twi'leks established contact with other planets, they inevitably began selling their captives offworld, attracting the attention of interstellar crimelords who sought a piece of the action.

Slavery had brought Shoaneb Zaruul, Jedi Knight, to Ryloth as well. Senator Orn Free Taa had lobbied for Jedi representation to convince the Twi'lek Clan Council to strengthen their cooperation in enforcing the Republic's antislavery laws. Shoaneb, as a former apprentice of Master Anoon Bondara, the system's Jedi Watchman, had been chosen to go in his place, allowing him to concentrate on his duties as the Temple Battlemaster.

She strode now, elegant, waiflike, into the high-ceilinged Council Hall in the city of Lessu, her head held high and her steps confident despite her lack of sight; as a Miraluka, she'd been born without physical eyes but possessed an innate ability to see through the Force. As was customary for her people, she wore a simple strip of cloth over her face, giving her the appearance of an innocuous, blindfolded human.

Representatives from the five ruling clans gathered in the Hall, sitting cross-legged on soft cushions upon a stone platform and seated according to rank. She could sense their contempt and pomposity as she approached the raised dais. A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. A sighted being may have been more easily affected by their withering stares, Jedi discipline or not, but they were nothing more to her than a vulgar gesture made in the dark.

"Esteemed councilmen," she began the moment she reached the speaker's platform, "let us not dither; the matter I've come to discuss with you is the subject of heated debate, both in this hallowed chamber and in the galactic capital." As she spoke, Shoaneb turned her sightless gaze from one Twi'lek to another until she'd made "eye contact" with each of them in turn. "It is my hope that we may reach a fair compromise that will satisfy all parties involved and safeguard the dignity of your people."

_Off to a good start_, she thought as the councilors conferred amongst themselves. She took a moment to stretch her awareness outward, getting a feel for the shape and texture of their thoughts and emotions.

"Jedi Zaruul," the spokesman, a corpulent red male named Fibb Koma, thundered. "Do not think to fool us with your words of compromise and fairness. You come before us as an agent of the Republic."

"The Senate has requested I speak for them but I assure you, Councilor Koma, that I shall remain impartial during these proceedings." She made a point of mentioning his name so that he knew that she knew who she was speaking to. "I swear this to you on my honor and that of the Jedi."

"Very well," he conceded, nodding, his fat lekku swaying gently with the motion.

"Ryloth has adhered to the Republic's laws concerning the slave trade since our world was granted admittance," spoke another councilor, Lohpa Mohona. "Certainly we cannot be blamed for the actions of kidnappers and outlaws."

Shoaneb turned in his direction. "This isn't an inquest, Councilor Mohona, nor is blame being laid before any member of this august body, nor the Council itself. What the Senate seeks from you is a stronger commitment to thwarting these brigands and brining them to justice.

"Furthermore, many covert slaving rings on your world operate under the guise of legitimate businesses, labor organizations, and talent agencies."

"And these agencies contract their employees," Mohona pointed out. Shoaneb could feel the satisfaction he felt at bringing up that particular fact. He smiled malignly down at her from his cushion. Satisfied? He was downright proud.

"Not precisely," she countered him. "The contracts these 'employees' enter into invariably require terms of service which are outrageously long, for payment in a lump sum pension upon completion, under working conditions so harsh as to ensure they never have the chance to collect."

She could feel him growing irritated as she spoke, anger rising up in him. "This does not alter the fact that those seeking employment with such organizations do so voluntarily, despite the drawbacks you point out."

"Again, not so," she replied, drawing smothered laughter from his surrounding councilors. His anger flared at being contradicted once more but she gave him no chance to interrupt. "Many are either coerced outright or maneuvered into a situation by criminal agencies working in concert with these covert slavers to leave them no option but to sign one of these so-called contracts."

Mohona opened his mouth but she pressed on, driving the Senate's point home. "These methods of recruitment and the conditions under which they are forced to work, regardless of any means taken to legitimize such actions, clearly violate the Republic's Rights of Sentience. Businesses operating in such a way are illegal and their contracts null and void."

That did it. "Do not come to our world, Jedi, and presume to dictate to us how we are to conduct our business!" Mohona snapped, leaning forward. His fat-laden body positively quivered as he gripped the edge of the dais with white-knuckled fingers.

"Ahem," Councilor Koma cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should take a short recess to cool our tempers." He rose, and his fellow councilmen did likewise, following him out of the room.

Before he went, Mohona's hate-filled gaze lingered on Shoaneb. She merely inclined her head in a respectful bow.

###

The world of Ryloth was tidally locked with its primary, so that as it orbited the star, the same side always faced toward it. This sun-baked half of the world was known as the Bright Lands, home to hardy predators and deadly heat storms that swept across the rocky desert, scouring it clean. The Night Lands, the world's dark side, was home to an ice cap that comprised the planet's only surface water. Overall, it was a desolate, wretched little planet at the end of the Corellian Run and one of the few actually farther out from the Core than Tatooine.

To avoid notice, they'd landed in the small city of Sal'kaasa, near the sunny edge of the planet's terminator. The unfamiliar air bit at Lynli's nostrils, electrifying her senses as she stepped off the cargo ramp onto foreign soil. Beside her, Ganhuff inhaled deeply, letting his breath out in a dreamy sigh. Turning to her, he smiled charmingly and said, "Welcome back, darling. Smell that rich, spicy air. Missed it, I'd wager?" The corners of his eyes were tinged with blue; he'd taken a hit of glitterstim a few hours ago and was in that middle realm between being completely stoned and trembling from oncoming withdrawal. It wouldn't last.

"Can't miss a place you've never been, right?" she replied with mock cheerfulness. She hadn't even left their docking berth yet and already she felt like everyone were staring at her.

Buruk came along behind them, pushing his swoop bike toward the ramp, a grim look on his face. "I want you to stay with Lynli and do what she says. While I'm gone, she's acting captain.," he told Aerek, his voice indicating there was no room for discussion.

"Why can't I go with you?" the boy protested anyway, storming along in the Mandalorian's wake.

Buruk stopped, bit his lower lip, unsure just how much to tell him. Eventually, he just knelt down and hugged him. When he pulled back, he said with a wink, "Someone has to look out for her _tayli'bac_?"

Aerek looked hard back at him, fully aware he was being patronized. _Smart kid_, Lynli thought, though it struck her how protective Buruk was acting.

Aloud, the boy said seriously, "_Elek. K'oyacyi_." Come back safe.

"_Elek alor_," Buruk replied with a chuckle. Then he stood, pushed the swoop out of the cargo hold and stopped beside Lynli at the bottom of the ramp. "Take care of him," he whispered, eyes plaintive.

Lynli nodded once and he straddled the bike, placed his helmet over his head, and sped off without another word.

###

Shoaneb stood like a statue in the courtyard before the Council Hall, simultaneously aware of the stares she received from passersby and ignoring their presence as she cleared her mind. Slowly, she raised her left hand, positioned it before her face with index- and middle-finger held vertically. Then, with a flick of her right thumb, she ignited the emerald blade of her lightsaber. As slowly as before, she flourished the blade in a graceful arc, listening to its hum and feeling its resonance in the Force as it pierced the air. She slashed and spun, kicked and wove, acting out a highly structured pattern that appeared to be more dance than combat to the growing crowd of spectators gathering a safe distance around her.

She had no desire for the public attention; she just hadn't been given a set of private lodgings in which to meditate between council sessions. She considered the routine an active form of meditation rather than simple lightsaber practice. Master Bondara had always said that if a Jedi must sharpen their mind, body, and spirit, why not do all at once? Like any Jedi, Shoaneb felt an intimate attachment to her saber, but to her it was so much more. She felt centered by it, enlightened and strengthened. It was a shame that so many considered it a mere weapon with which to do violence.

A greater shame she'd been forced to use it as such, to cut short precious lives on that snowy world, now so distant and so long ago as to seem to have been another person entirely. She'd felt dirty afterward, sullied. She refused to take on any new assignments for over a month, sequestering herself within her quarters in the Jedi Temple and constructing a new, pure lightsaber. Once completed, she'd felt relieved, as if a weight hanging from her neck was removed.

With another flourish, Shoaneb sharpened her perception, peering deeper into the Force as she felt beads of sweat trickle down her forehead, dampening her blindfold. She could see the Force itself within the bystanders, flowing through them along pathways she would describe as similar to a human circulatory system. In most, it was barely a trickle, but in some, it flowed with a health and vigor to rival the mightiest rivers.

Through the Force, she could perceive the existence of nearly every sentient being on the planet, for it also surrounded them, a glowing beacon giving them a sort of aura, each one unique to its owner, like a fingerprint or retinal pattern. Most appeared greyish, dull, with a propensity to neither light nor dark that made it harder to distinguish between individuals. She felt no shock at this, for most sentients, without the awareness of the Force's touch, fell into that murky middle ground where good and evil seemed to be relative. Some auras, however and these were very special people to her mind, shone bright and glistening, like a star, while others, like Councilor Mohona, positively smoldered with darkness.

Suddenly jarred by a particular aura, her steps faltered. Shutting down the lightsaber, Shoaneb caught herself with the Force, regained her footing, and focused. There it was, several thousand kilometers away, a presence she recognized, though it had been faint then, weak and fading, on the brink of death. A shiver ran up her back, threatening to overtake her entire body. _There is no emotion, there is peace…_ she thought to herself. But she couldn't deny there was fear in her heart.

Shoaneb had heard that only the most powerful Jedi masters could return from the netherworld of the Force as spirits, but she never forgot an individual's aura. There could be no mistake; one of the dead had come for her.

###

The crew of the _Cuun'yaim_, sans Buruk, had piled into one of the ship's two shuttle craft, flying off to the major city of Kala'uun to see the sights. Their first stop was a small café, not overly luxurious, but not a simple greasy spoon. They sat in a booth discussing what to order for some time, Lynli unsure what to try; her palate didn't exactly include cultivated molds or fungi. Furthermore, their Twi'lek waitress, an attractive female with pale olive skin, wrinkled her nose as the sound of her accent.

"I don't know…" Lynli said, brows arched indecisively as she looked over the menu. "It all looks so… good." She didn't want to say "unappetizing." "Can you just come back to me?"

"Maalku is fine, thank you," the Gand buzzed through his vocoder.

"Gruuvan _shaal_," Qate said, setting down her menu. "_Bal ni copaani buy'ce gal._" Then, catching herself, she cleared her throat and repeated in Basic, "And a pint of fermented fungus ale." Lynli had to suppress a face.

"I'd like a bowl rycrit stew, _gedet'ye_," Aerek ordered with a smile. "_Vor'e_."

"I… I guess I'll have the rycrit munch-fungus stir-fry," Lynli ventured cautiously.

"I'll have the munch-fungus sauté, extra spongy," Ganhuff said with a sly grin, eying the waitress lasciviously. Then he whispered, "And can I get that with a light dusting of ryll, Beautiful? Thanks." He winked and patted her on the backside as she left, turning back to his companions with a wide grin.

"You're a pig," Qate said disgustedly.

"Come on," he protested jocularly. "We're in spice central; you can't expect me not to enjoy myself. That'd be inhuman."

"And we're nonhuman," the Zabrak replied with a mirthless smile. Clearing his throat uncomfortably, the doctor quieted down.

Their food came and they ate in silence, Lynli poking her fungus about her plate unenthusiastically. She looked around the dining room, at other Twi'leks seated in twos and threes at tables scattered all over, waitresses and busboys tending to them. Somehow, she felt like an amoeba under a microscope, as if they were all watching her every move, silently judging her. Her lekku twitched, betraying her nervousness.

The silence was broken by the Findsman. "When you're through eating, Maalku was hoping you would not mind if we went to see the Floating Rock Gardens. I hear they are beautiful and Maalku has wanted to take the opportunity to meditate there for some years now."

"I don't see why not," Lynli answered. She still hadn't touched her food. "What do you all think?"

"Kitschy tourist trap," Qate said dubiously, taking a long swig from her stein. Then with a shrug, "Sure, I'm in."

"Okay," Aerek replied, shoveling stew into his mouth with the large wooden spoon given him.

"I don't know…" Ganhuff hesitated. "I had planned an outing or three for myself… High class and such, you all really wouldn't be interested."

Without missing a beat, Lynli asked, "You're going to an Oobalah den, aren't you?"

"A distinct possibility."

"Well fine," Lynli barked in frustration, angrily stabbing her fork into the plateful of fungus and taking a bite. No sooner had it touched her tongue than she gagged, instantly spitting the wad back out onto the plate. "Ugh-blegh," she sputtered, wiping her mouth and pounding down a glass of water.

When she looked up, she found that all eyes in the restaurant really were on her now, curious stares from nearby customers cutting into her from all directions. Pushing away from the table, she stood, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and said, "Let's go, shall we?"

###

Shoaneb stood atop a chimney rock, overlooking the vast, sun-soaked wasteland that comprised Ryloth's dayside. Had she eyes to see, she'd have been awestruck by the view, the rugged beauty of the desert stretched out before her in shades of earthy brown, dirty yellow, and dusky orange. Blistering wind whipped at her robes, snapping the fabric about her arms and legs as she looked out from her perch and sought out the malign spirit that in turn sought her.

He was an elusive spirit, his thoughts shrouded in an enigmatic game of numbers. _Counting sabacc cards_, she realized. Certainly, a good trick to mask one's thoughts and emotions on the surface, but to Shoaneb Zaruul, who saw through to the essence of all things, it was nothing more than a cheap veneer over a malicious heart.

_Come spirit,_ she thought, sweat breaking out on her brow, and not entirely from the steadily rising heat. _Let us finish what was begun at Galidraan._

Drawing her lightsaber and igniting the green blade with a _snap-hiss_ that echoed across the desert, she waited, for he would find her in due time; she knew it to be true. Meditating, she focused on the lance of energy in her hand as she slowly wove it through her familiar pattern, feeling the Force flow through it, through her, filling her with its light and taking with it her fear. If this Mandalorian dragged her soul, screaming, into Chaos, she would be ready.

She suppressed a shudder as the wind picked up.

###

They had to pay an entry fee to get in.

As she stepped through the archway into the Floating Rock Gardens, the sheer size of the cavern stole Lynli's breath away, taking with it whatever complaints she may have had for the admission price. The cave had to be at least half a kilometer in diameter, gargantuan stalagmites growing up from the floor like tree trunks that tapered to points at the top; it sure made a sentient feel small. Her companions shouldered their way past where she stood agape, heading off into the open spaces where rocks ranging in size from pebbles to boulders floated majestically on the wind currents. As she took in the scene, Lynli silently mouthed, _Wow_.

She drifted deeper into the cavern after the others, still gazing up at the enormous stones sailing through the air like clouds, wondering how they managed to defy gravity without any kind of repulsorlift generator. Suddenly, someone laid a gentle hand on her arm, interrupting her technical musings. She turned to look and found it belonged to Maalku, who tipped his straw hat back off his grey-green head.

As though he had read her mind, he said, "Tunnels on the surface channel the strong winds down from above into the chamber. The heavy stones float on the breeze like heavy thoughts across a cavernous mind. So it is with you, Maalku suspects."

"That's very, uh, profound," Lynli said, clearing her throat. She looked around to find the others, saw Qate poking at passing stones, sending them shooting off on random trajectories around the garden while Aerek was busy spelling his name. "Surprised you're not meditating by now, Findsman."

He inclined his head respectfully, casting his multifaceted eyes down to the floor. "Maalku wished to invite you to meditate with him," he said, voice buzzing through his breath mask's vocoder. "Perhaps he could help you lighten some of those thoughts of yours."

"Sure," she replied, turning back to him. "What do I do?"

"Join me," he said simply, sitting down and crossing his legs. She did likewise, lekku twitching, as she threw sidelong glances at the few other tourists wandering about. Only a few others were Twi'leks like herself. "Now… look inward. What is it that troubles you, Flower?"

"This whole karking planet," Lynli answered. "I can't figure it out; everywhere I've been in the galaxy, there've been Twi'leks, but this is the only place I've felt nervous around them."

The Gand took a deep breath of his canned ammonia, exhaled slowly, and replied, "You feel you don't belong."

"I know I don't belong. Did ever since I set foot in the system. They know it too." She waved her hand, encompassing the world with the gesture.

"Yet you expected to find a place here among your people."

"I didn't… I…" she stammered, fidgeting. Then, shamefacedly, she admitted, "Yes. I don't know why—I never lived here, at least not that I can remember." She sighed, then, borrowing a word from Buruk's vocabulary, said, "_Shab_, I may as well be a human for all I know about my culture."

"The Great Tortoise is human," Maalku pointed out, "and he holds his culture closer to his heart than some Gands I have known. He is also very generous with it, willing to share it freely."

"Yeah, through his blaster," Lynli chuckled, nodding, then silently wondered how a particular "cultural exchange" was fairing for Buruk just then.

###

Finding the _Jetii_ had been easy. An infochant in Lessu set up a meet between Buruk and a councilman named Mohona, with whom she'd apparently made enemies. Away from prying eyes, the scroungy little _sha'buir_ tried to make small talk about _ibic'ibac_ and some such _osik_ about the free market economy. Once Buruk had made it abundantly clear that he wasn't interested in crime and politics, he proved very forthcoming about where she could be found; apparently, he'd had spies watching her and was already planning to order her assassination when the Mandalorian happened along. He'd certainly been perplexed when Buruk declined payment.

He came upon her outside the city, well into the Bright Lands where off in the distance he could see the wind kicking up more burning sand than usual, the beginnings of a heat storm. The rising temperature was already taxing his _beskar'gam_'s regulators. How she could stand it with nothing but her plain robes was a mystery to him.

Buruk circled around on the swoop, keeping his distance, observing her through the macrobinoculars embedded in his visor. She was slightly built, a _laandur_, with her hair done up in a single topknot and pinned in place with a pair of chopsticks. A strip of brown cloth covered eyes but he knew better than to think her handicapped; he'd heard of the Miraluka and their inborn abilities, and had watched her butcher more than ten of his comrades. She perched atop a chimney rock, apparently dancing with her lightsaber, sweeping the green blade about her one-handed in slow, graceful arcs, her other hand moving in concert for balance.

Deciding he'd seen enough, Buruk leveled his gauntlet at her, sighting through his helmet's rangefinder, and fired a wrist rocket. She was in the air before it even halved the distance between the two, twirling away from the blossoming fireball that engulfed the peak of the rock sculpture she'd been standing on only a moment prior. Immediately he steered the swoop directly at her, accelerating, and leapt clear just as she sidestepped, neatly lopping off the forward control vanes and sending it spinning away to a fiery crash.

In less than a heartbeat he was back on his feet, shouldering his blaster carbine and flicking the selector over to autofire. The _Jetii_ swatted his shots away, sending them ricocheting harmlessly into the surrounding rocks, chipping off hot shards that flew through the air.

"There is meaning in them," Maalku buzzed. "The formations of the rocks as they flow naturally through the air currents. If you look, you will find it."

Lynli stared dully into the swirling vortices of stones as they meandered by, straining her vision to see _something_. "All I see is rocks," she replied after a beat. "No great mysteries of the universe there."

"Quit trying so hard," he admonished. "Forget the universe—look for the mysteries of your inner self."

"Whatever you say," she rolled her eyes and turned back to the swirling rock formations.

###

The Mandalorian was a diabolical spirit; his initial attack had been lightning fast, trying to throw Shoaneb off balance. Taking the offensive, she closed the gap between them, deflecting his shots as she made her way toward him. As soon as she reached striking distance, he fired the jetpack he wore, rocketing through the air, firing as he went. She tumbled away, fear fueling her speed, while blaster bolts kicked up dirt as they stitched a path in her wake.

He landed lightly on his feet several meters away and tossed a grenade. Taking hold of it with the Force, she plucked it out of the air and threw it right back at him. He dove for cover behind a boulder as it went off, showering the area with hot metal fragments that buried themselves in the surrounding rocks. A few whizzed by Shoaneb, mere centimeters from her face, but she twisted easily out of their path.

She leapt forward over the rock he cowered behind, stabbing downward with her lightsaber. He tumbled away, a clatter of armor, and rolled to his feet as her blade hissed angrily upon striking empty ground. With a thrust of her hand, she pushed with the Force, hurling him backward into the base of a spindle rock growing up from the earth.

The Miraluka darted in, slashing horizontally for a decapitating stroke that missed entirely as he ducked below the sweeping arc of her weapon. The blade sliced off a length of the spindle, about the thickness of a child's arm, which the Mandalorian snatched up in one hand and swung at her, intent on dashing in her skull. Shoaneb raised her lightsaber to block and he succeeded only in slicing his own bludgeon in half on the blade. He was quick to change strategy, however, and thrust forward with the piece that remained in his hand, jabbing her in the chin with a dull _thwack_ and staggered her back a step.

Firing his jetpack again, the Mandalorian dropped a second grenade at her feet before putting some distance between them. Her head still spinning from the blow to the skull, Shoaneb's reaction was late; summoning the Force about her, she somersaulted backwards into the air just as it went off, peppering her with fragments that dug into her shoulders and the backs of her arms. Scrambling behind cover, she shut down her lightsaber, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. She had to reassess the situation.

The heat was rising much faster now, the storm getting close, and sweat poured down her face, soaked her hair and robes so that they clung to her uncomfortably in places. Her heart raced, adrenaline burning like acid in her veins, and in a moment of weakness she gave in to a rising emotion. Her fear began to whisper at the back of her mind. _He'll destroy you_, it said.

Immediately she stamped down on it, regaining control of her senses. "As my feet walk from the ashes of Katarr, I shall not fear," she gasped, reciting an ancient litany passed down by her people. "For in fear, lies death."

###

"There's noting there!" Lynli protested, massaging her temples. She'd been staring into the mass of stones without blinking for too long and had started to develop a headache. "Nothing at all!"

"No?" Maalku asked calmly. "You don't feel a connection to any of them?"

"They're just rocks." She was getting frustrated with his unflappable stoicism.

"Hmm… Strange," he ruminated, scratching the top of his head carapace. "That one there was just beginning to remind me of you."

She swung her head around, lekku flopping over her shoulders, searching through the mass. "Which one? Where?"

He pointed with a three-fingered hand. "That one. Off by itself, distancing itself from the others."

Lynli looked where he pointed; it wasn't a rock but a chunk of deep purple amethyst. She cast a sidelong glance at him and wondered if he didn't make all connections to his visions based on color.

"It's an impure specimen," the Gand continued.

"What?" she snapped. _Did he just insult me?_

"If you observe closely, you can tell it's softer than most that are out there, and the color is milder as well. Not something you'll find in a jewelry store, probably a synthetic out of some nick-knack store."

She glanced down at her chest, blushing a little. _They're not synthetic_, she thought, embarrassed.

Maalku didn't even notice. "Polished enough to catch the eye but still a little rough around the edges. Obviously something someone just left behind when they had no more use for it. A lonely little gem, like a flower in the desert."

She looked at the amethyst differently then, considering Maalku's assessment of it, really of her. She reached out to touch the little crystal, only to have him grab hold of her wrist. His hand was surprisingly strong for an old bug.

"You mustn't interfere with the natural flow of things if you wish to see your destiny unfold."

"Fine," she said with a huff. Jamming her hands into her jumpsuit pockets, she impatiently watched the gemstone as a cluster of stones all shapes and sizes and colors of the rainbow approached, floated past it, and left it all alone again, course unchanged. _Well, that was disappointing_, she thought, rolling her eyes.

Soon a piece of red granite came hurtling along, on a collision course for the amethyst Lynli identified with; she tensed up unconsciously, but before they hit, a piece of sandstone intercepted the rock. The two stones ricocheted off each other, the granite spiraling off into the swarm, while the sandstone began to orbit her gem, never leaving its side, revolving around it as they continued on course together.

She blinked several times, looked between the floating rocks and the Gand, and back again. The sandstone remained with the amethyst, still in its orbit. Then another stone appeared next to hers, and another and another. Soon a whole cluster of seven drab, dirty rocks traveled alongside her until they passed out of sight.

Lynli blink. She had seen enough; she got up and left the gardens.

###

Buruk was breathing heavily and he sweated under his armor despite the cooling unit. The heat storm was practically on top of them now, buffeting him with cyclone winds that pummeled him with a billion abrasive granules of sand. He worked fast to set the trap; it probably wouldn't catch the _Jetii_ but it could as least serve as a distraction so he could deliver a killing blow. Maybe he'd even get lucky and keep her distracted long enough to shoot her in the back. Things were getting desperate now, for both of them, he could tell. She'd held herself in check when he'd first attacked but as the fight wore on, she released herself more and more, throwing herself into the battle with a rising passion, probably getting scared.

_She _should_ be afraid_, he thought, pulling a third grenade from his thigh plate. The _chakaaryc demagolka_ deserved it. Pulling the pin, he let it cook off a few seconds, then hurled it over the low sandstone rise he took cover behind. It burst in the air, showering the area with shrapnel, and he leapt to his feet, on the move again.

Rising from behind cover, he hefted his carbine left handed, spraying blaster bolts in a broad sweep as he circled around toward her last known position. She rose to meet him, parrying his shots easily, adjusting to stay facing her attacker. When he had her where he wanted her, Buruk thumbed the reel on his whipcord, retracting it back into his right gauntlet. The initial snap pulled the cable taut, actuating the trigger of the hidden blaster pistol he'd tied it to, and firing it right at the Jedi's back.

She twirled, swatted the shot away, as Buruk closed in, holding down the carbine's trigger and not letting up. But his shots didn't even come close. She threw up her hand as she turned, and his weapon reoriented itself away, firing harmlessly into the stormy sky. Osik_!_ he thought, trying to bring it back in line, but to no avail; it held fast. Shab_!_ Shab_!_ Shab_!_

When she turned back to him, she swept her lightsaber through the carbine's body, bisecting it in his hands, then followed up with another thrusting hand gesture, slamming him to the ground hard enough to elicit a shocked outcry. Raising her hand, he lifted up from the ground, legs kicking futilely in a desperate attempt to break free. It couldn't end like this, not at the very beginning!

"You cannot hide your cheap tricks from me," she hissed, ignoring the gusting sands that bit into her exposed skin. "I see everything! The Mandalorian armor you hide yourself in, the mark of a lightsaber over your eye, the terrified racing of your heart."

She splayed her fingers and his arms and legs spread eagle where he hung in midair. "You going to talk me to death or put that shiny-stick to work?" he spat defiantly.

"I even see your hatred for me," she continued as though he hadn't even spoken. "Without it, you are a hollow thing, empty and pathetic. The shell of a man encased in the shell of your armor."

A flick of her wrist and Buruk flew backward, back into a cave where he rolled to a rough stop on the rocky floor. She stood in the mouth, backlit by the intense waves of solar radiation warping the sky, her robes whipping about crazily. He didn't hesitate. He fired his wrist rocket, an incendiary round. It whooshed up the tunnel toward her, where she reached out and pushed it aside. It collided with the wall and exploded, splashing her with jellied fuel that ignited on contact with the air.

Fire crawled across her sleeve faster than he could blink, engulfing her. She screamed, flailing her arm about and stumbling back into the open. Seconds later, the full force of the heat storm hit, billions of hot, sharp grains of sand blasting her skin open as the fire spread, exposing muscle and fat to the blistering temperatures, drying them out and igniting them in turn.

"Bet you didn't see that," Buruk muttered as he watched with a mix of relief and horror as she was swiftly incinerated until all that remained were bones and a lightsaber.

###

Hours passed and Lynli was well beyond worry. She was outright panicking, pacing back and forth within the _Cuun'yaim_'s cargo hold. Word hadn't come back from Buruk yet and the local news said a heat storm hit near Lessu shortly after they'd arrived on Ryloth. _Let him come back_, she thought. _Please let him come back._

Aerek waited with her, casting a worried look at the airlock every few minutes. "He'll be back soon," he said. He'd repeated it about six times now over the last hour. Lynli just nodded and kept pacing.

Suddenly there was a loud bang against the airlock door. Lynli ran to it, threw it open, and there he stood, very much the worse for wear. For a moment, she just stood and stared into that blank T-shaped visor, just grateful to see him again. Then she threw her arms around him, hugging him. His armor was uncomfortably hot but she didn't care. Aerek ran up and hugged him too, throwing his arms around Buruk's waist.

"So… did you miss me?" the Mandalorian asked sarcastically, placing a hand experimentally on each of their backs.

"What happened to the swoop?" Lynli asked into his shoulder.

"It sort of… exploded," he answered sheepishly.

"I can't fix exploded," she chuckled.

"Yeah. Did you know it's a long walk from Lessu to Sal'kaasa?" When she threw a glance over his shoulder, he added, "Jet pack ran out of fuel after about a klick."

"Next time call," Lynli said. Then, finally disengaging herself, she asked, "You got what you came for?"

He nodded. "You?"

"No," she answered. Then, she punched him lightly in the arm and said, "I got something better." With that, she turned and skipped up the stairs to the upper catwalks.

"So no Vairns in the comlink registry?" he called up to her.

"Not a one," she replied.

Shrugging his shoulders, Buruk looked down at Aerek who still hadn't released his hold on him. Ruffling the boy's hair with one hand while he removed his helmet with the other, he said, "Woman is a fickle creature."

"_Elek_," the youth agreed, then looked up into the man's face and burst out laughing.

"What?" Buruk asked, oblivious to the T-shaped tan line over his otherwise pale face.

###

The members of the Clan Council sat on their cushioned throw pillows, having reconvened several hours after the initial recess. They waited restlessly for the Jedi Zaruul to return, Councilor Koma checking his chrono every few minutes. Eventually they dispatched a messenger to locate the Jedi and squire her back to the chamber.

Once an hour had passed with no word, Councilor Mohona spoke up. "My fellow councilors, I think we've waited long enough. The Senate wishes to interfere in our economy and dictate business ethics to us." His words met with muttered agreement from the others.

"The Jedi wished to impose sanctions on legitimate organizations to cripple their business simply because they viewed their methods as distasteful. And their view is based on their high-and-mighty Core mentality and the endowments of Old Money!" The councilors voiced their support more loudly now.

"They would have promised assistance and support in enforcing their economic sanctions, which would have amounted to an occupation by the Judicial Forces. However, I believe we've seen the extent of the Jedi's and indeed the Republic's sense of commitment to its outlier worlds. Were we to acquiesce to their demands, we would no doubt be left to once again fend for ourselves and our time arguing the point will have been wasted. I say we declare this issue to be closed."

As the three other councilors applauded, Koma had no choice but to say, "Agreed. We shall neither ratify nor enforce any sanctions brought forward by the Senate's Jedi ambassador." He frowned. "No changes shall be made to Ryloth's antislavery laws or in the manner with which they are carried out." He struck the dais with a gavel. "Council adjourned."

Mohona, the corrupt bureaucrat that he was, smiled triumphantly as he stood and left the chamber. Koma watched him go, shaking his head ruefully.


	24. The Savior of Roche

"Do you recognize any of this?" the Twi'lek coroner asked, waving a pale yellow hand over the examining table on which the remains lay. They were nothing more than a few scraps of burnt cloth, some sand-scoured bones, and a heavily abraded lightsaber hilt.

The morgue and its three occupants were mostly cast in shadow at the table's edge. Kit-Sun Wolfgana reached out a hand into the glaring bright light cast by the overhead glowlamp, picked up the damaged weapon, and immediately shuddered. He could sense the echoes of fear and anguish its former owner left behind and, thanks to the psychometric abilities inherent to the Kiffar people, merely touching it sent shockwaves through his mind as if he himself had experienced them firsthand. They felt familiar and a name swam up out of his subconscious, connecting to the lightsaber, filling him with grief and sorrow. "Shoaneb," he gasped, fighting for control over his emotions.

Beside him, Master Nurt Ulasac stood silently, grim-faced, as he watched the knight struggle to regain his composure. They'd come to Ryloth when the Jedi Council lost contact with Shoaneb Zaruul and their search had led them to the Lessu city morgue. There hadn't been much left to identify; the evidence suggested she'd been incinerated in a heat storm on the planet's dayside.

To the coroner, Ulasac said, "Thank you Doctor; that should suffice." Grabbing Kit-Sun by the sleeve of his tunic, he bustled him out into the hall, wondering to himself, _What would've possessed Shoaneb to walk into the Bright Lands during a heat storm?_ He couldn't see the Force leading a Jedi down such a self-destructive path and no Jedi in the entire history of the Order had ever committed suicide. Someone had to be responsible, which made her the second Jedi murdered in less than a year. It wasn't a question whether or not they were related, but rather how. Time would tell and Master Nurt Ulasac feared that it would before he managed to unravel the mystery.

###

A billion slivers of light danced through the swirling ammonia clouds of Gand, shimmering in the findsman's eyes. If he looked long enough he would see the very heart of the universe, the singular truth of all things that he so feverishly sought. He'd searched along this path for years, cloistered in the rocky deserts of his homeworld beneath the towering edifices of the monument built to honor the Gands' first great king. Maalku Tekot's current surroundings were far more mundane, however, than the spectacular carvings and sculptures of Zetii Qufuu Nenydjir Qaa; he sat cross-legged on a tatami mat laid out on the catwalk overlooking the _Cuun'yaim_'s cargo bay. He stared beyond the rusty brown bulkhead walls into the mists of time and space with half-lidded eyes, breathing slowly from the ammonia canister attached to his breathing apparatus. A pair of boots stomping up the corridor racked his tympanic membranes, jolting him back to the here and now.

"A week!" Tortoise railed, his words muffled by a breath mask fitted snugly over his nose and mouth. "It took me a whole week to get fifty crates of fresh fruit because _you_ said you knew a way to turn it around for a big payoff!"

"And we still can," Flower insisted, her face similarly covered as she followed him into the cargo hold. In fact, every breathing member of the _Firefly_-class transport's crew wore one at the doctor's insistence. The spore-choked air positively reeked of mold, the result of fifty crates of not-so-fresh fruit rotting in their hold thanks to a failed stasis field. The Gand findsman quashed a momentary feeling of satisfaction that he was no longer the only one forced to breathe canned air.

"How?" the Mandalorian demanded as he reached a gloved hand into one of the offending containers and pulled out a shriveled, discolored goldfruit covered in a fuzzy, light green carpet. "Look at this stuff. It's worthless." He squished it angrily and thick orange juice ran between his fingers. Maalku would have rolled his eyes if he could have; every time those two seemed to come to an understanding, they invariably went right back to bickering. He listened to them with only half an ear while he tried to reorder his thoughts back onto their desired path.

The Twi'lek pried Tortoise's fingers open and replaced the crushed fruit in its crate with exaggerated care. "I took the liberty of _borrowing_ Qate's scanner," she said, wiping her violet hands on the thighs of her coverall. "The particular type of fuzz growing on these things just happens to be magenge."

"So?"

"So, don't you know anything? Magenge is the basis of the Verpine diet. We can make twice as much in the Roche system as we expected to get for the fruit itself."

That got Maalku's attention. "Did you say the Roche system?" he asked, pushing his straw hat back on his chitinous head.

"That's right," Tortoise replied. "Lynli seems to think a cargo hold full of moldy produce'll fetch us a good amount of coin from the Verpines." He folded his arms over his chest. "_I_ say she's finally found a piece of _osik_ she can't polish and is just trying to save face."

He let out a yelp as she tugged on his thick red braid. "I should also point out that the Roche asteroids are also the only source in the galaxy for laramalstone," she said. "We can pick it up wholesale and sell that in the Core for three or four times what we paid for it. Remember, you still need to get us a new swoop bike." She referred to the repulsor vehicle he'd destroyed while battling a Jedi Knight on Ryloth several weeks ago.

"That may not be such a wise decision," the Gand replied, casting his compound eyes downward. He opted to referentially demote himself then. "Tekot… ran into a bit of trouble when Tekot last traveled through Roche… They may not be very happy to see Tekot back there…"

"I wouldn't be overly concerned, Findsman," Tortoise said, massaging his scalp. "No offense, but most Gands look alike, rare as they might be. I doubt if anyone will recognize you."

Maalku hesitated a moment, then nodded. "Very well. Do what you think best."

"Always do," the captain called over his shoulder as he turned and headed up to the cockpit.

###

"You're not even going to ask him are you?" Lynli demanded, following Buruk out of the cargo bay.

"About what?" he asked, not even turning.

"You know 3erfectly well about what," she said, grabbing hold of his arm and stopping him in the corridor. "Aren't you the least bit curious why Maalku's so reluctant to set down in the Roche asteroids?"

"Everyone's got their reasons," the Mandalorian shrugged. "Seems whether I ask or not, they end up coming out sooner or later anyway. Why rush it?"

She released her grip and crossed her arms over her chest. "Hmph. That's very fatalistic of you."

"I seem to recall asking you about Teräs Käsi a while ago and I've yet to get an answer," he replied, stepping in close to her. She looked up into his scarred face, suddenly feeling uncomfortable at his proximity. "Care to tell me now?"

She hesitated, considering. Stepping in close like this was probably some macho play at intimidation, trying to force her to show her hand. Should she just tell him? Before she could decide, he made the choice for her. He turned away and continued toward the cockpit. "Didn't think so."

###

As they set down on the Roche system's capital asteroid, Lynli keyed the shipwide comm and, in her most sensual voice, she said, "Welcome, travelers, to Nickel One. Thank you flying _Cuun'yaim_ Space Ways; please remain seated until the Firefly has come to a full and complete stop."

"You never get tired of that joke, do you?" Buruk asked from the pilot's seat. He smiled in spite of himself and made a last minute course correction to bring them about so their boarding ramp would face the docking bay's entrance. Ret'lini, he told himself. _Just in case._

After half an hour and some very creative lying to the Verpine customs officer, they'd secured a few hundred thousand credits, most of which went into refueling the ship and covering the docking fee; Roche was one of those out-of-the-way systems that made for expensive detours. Buruk grumbled and Qate rolled her eyes at the waste, but the crew still managed to walk away with a meager profit, enough to buy a round of drinks in the spaceport's cantina. The one consolation to the Mandalorians was that the job had gone down smooth. All the while, Maalku took great pains to keep his hat pulled down over his eyes, obscuring his face.

It was all for naught.

The usual riffraff of various spacefaring species sat throughout the cantina, along with a few native Verpines who eyed the newcomers but kept mostly to themselves. The first trouble came when a burly Trandoshan spacer sidled up to the corner booth where the _Cuun'yaim_'s crew sat, staggering slightly, a little drunk. He laid a heavy claw on the table and in guttural Basic, hissed, "Hey you… Fancsssyman with the blue-eye… I know you…"

"I should think so, I'm rather infamous," Ganhuff replied coolly, keeping his hands visible while his companions slowly reached beneath the table toward their blasters.

"I ssseen you on wanted possstersss," the Trandoshan continued. "Republic wantsss you bad. Bad enough to pay."

"I've lost track of how many bounty hunters have failed to collect," the doctor countered. "What's the reward up to now, anyway?"

"Why do you care?" Qate asked.

"A man likes to know the measure of his worth," he winked at her.

"Two hundred large," the Trandoshan answered as though she'd never interrupted. He went for his gun.

Before anyone could pull their own weapon, Maalku was on his feet, holding his shockprod staff level with his shoulders, and the Trandoshan convulsed on the floor. A few stray sparks crackled between the forked prongs of the Gand weapon and the room filled with the sharp smell of ozone. The room went quiet and all eyes were on the findsman; the group of Verpines quietly excused themselves.

Maalku suddenly seemed to realize just how badly he'd screwed things up for himself and immediately resumed his seat, hunching his shoulders. He'd have blushed if he'd been capable of it.

"Very discreet," Ganhuff said dryly.

Buruk simply buried his face in the palm of his hand. "How come it never goes smooth?" he muttered.

###

They left the bar in a hurry. Once one bounty hunter had Ganhuff or Lynli identified, it was only a matter of time before more started crawling out of the woodwork. Add that to the local history Maalku claimed to have, and Buruk came up with a huge recipe for disaster that he fervently wanted to avoid. The crew made their way through several twisting back alleys they hoped would shake off pursuit, only to find themselves face to face with a mob of chittering Verpines.

Their antennae perked up when they spotted the crew and the crowd of insectoids watched them with shiny, unblinking black eyes. Buruk's hand inched toward his blaster as he whispered, "Just back away slowly…"

"I think we can take them," Qate replied lightly, reaching into a pouch on her belt for what was undoubtedly a grenade.

Then something happened that completely threw them all for a loop. One Verpine stepped forward from the crowd and held up a small comlink; transmitting their thoughts via radio waves, it was the easiest way for them to communicate with other sentients. In an artificially generated Corellian accent, he called out, "We are forever in your debt, Maalku Tekot! Thank you for returning to us so we may show you our gratitude!"

Buruk blinked. All heads turned toward the findsman. Well, here it was; the big coming out he knew would happen. "Maalku… care to tell me just what it was happened last time you were here?"

A burst of static issued from the Gand's vocoder as he cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Nothing to deserve this," he answered carefully. The Verpines had begun to surround them now, fawning over him like awestruck children. "A Kubaz merchant had put a bounty on a hive mother and Maalku; eighty thousand creds. Never asked why, just broke in and took her. Maalku is as confused as you are, Tortoise."

The Verpine that had spoken earlier found himself before the findsman and reverently reached out to touch Maalku's shabby brown robe. His carapace was chalkier, indicating he was far older than most of the others; some sort of elder. His antennae twitched furtively as he withdrew his hand and said, "We'd hoped you'd return so we could reward you."

Maalku fidgeted. Ganhuff nudged him with his elbow and said, "Well go on Findsman, don't be modest."

"Indeed," Lynli added, taking his arm and patting him on the shoulder. "We'd all just love to hear the harrowing tale of how you became a Verpine folk hero—just how much reward are we talking?"

"We can never repay the service Maalku Tekot has done for us," the Verpine elder said.

"Well you never know until you try," Lynli replied with a big grin on her face.

Rolling his eyes, Buruk took her hands off the Gand. "Why don't we have ourselves a sit-down and you tell us just what it is you think he did for you."

###

In another cantina, far from the docks, they sat like honored dignitaries holding court, surrounded by Verpines young and old; Thernbee, naturally, took advantage of the opportunity to have someone else buy his drinks for him while the others listened to what the elder Verpine had to say.

"When you first took the Mad Queen, we were furious," the elder explained, setting his comlink down on the table before them. "We planned to give chase and bring her back. I wasn't until we started investigating that we learned you were in fact our savior."

"What do you mean 'savior'?" Maalku asked, kneading his straw hat in his three-fingered hands.

"You may know that some species take their sustenance from insects. We found evidence that the Mad Queen had in fact been in league with a member of such a species, selling the bodies of our deceased hive siblings on the black market for consumption abroad."

The others nearly spat out their ale. Flower gagged and a coughing fit overcame Thernbee and refused to subside until Shepherd slapped him roughly on the back.

"When we realized what the Mad Queen had done we declared a strike in your name. The Technocracy couldn't stop it; we're too many when we're all together on something. So in recompense for her actions, they divided her assets equally among us—called it a bonus." Adoration filled his gaze.

"You are a hero, Maalku Tekot. You freed us from the Mad Queen's reign of terror and for that we are eternally grateful. We wish to repay you any way we can; we are all skilled technicians with Slayn & Korpil."

Flower's eyes lit up at the mention of the starship manufacturer's name; the Verpine had a reputation as some of the finest shipwrights in the galaxy and she practically salivated at the thought of all the special modifications they could make to the _Cuun'yaim_.

Maalku shifted uneasily in his seat as it all sank in; they didn't understand at all.

###

Buruk sat on a packing crate in the ship's hold, going over the latest addition to his armory. He'd had to replace his blaster rifle after the Jedi on Ryloth had cleaved it in half so he'd spent his share of the Verpines' gratitude on a new weapon. He set to work disassembling and reassembling the mechanism until it became second nature when Aerek sidled up next to him.

"New kit?" the boy asked precociously. Noting the particle magazine, he added, "Why a slug thrower? Those things are primitive pieces of _osik_."

"Language, _ad'ika_," Buruk replied with a warning glare. "_Copaani mirshmure'cye? _And it's not just any old slug thrower like the kind you'll find on a backwater like Tatooine." He slid the magnetic coil into its slot in the accelerator and locked it in place. "This is a Verpine shatter rifle."

He continued to reassemble the weapon, savoring the smell of lubricant. "Effective range is the same as a blaster, there's no recoil, no report, and they're so easy an Echani could use one." He gave Aerek a wink and the boy grinned. "The ammunition's capable of massive kinetic damage to a target and it's small enough that a Jedi can't block it effectively." He paused. "And if they do, it'll be vaporized by the lightsaber blade instead of deflected back at you."

"What about the swoop? Did you find a replacement for it yet?"

Buruk bit his lip, embarrassed, and couldn't bring himself to meet the boy's stare. "Not yet…" he admitted.

"Lynli's going to be mad," Aerek warned.

"I doubt it," the Mandalorian snorted. "She's so wrapped up in what those buggies can do to tweak the ship she hasn't had her attention on much else."

As if on cue, a loud crash came from the engine room and a pair of Verpine techs scurried down the stairs from the upper deck. A hydrospanner flew through the air after them, clanging off a bulkhead. "Out!" Lynli shouted from the stairway. "Get out! I told you a hundred a times, you can't set the life support to pump ammonia directly into the system! I don't care if he is your _shabla_ savior, the rest of us have to breathe too, you know!"

"She's just a little touchy about who she lets fiddle with the power plant," Buruk assured the boy, holding on tight to his rifle as if to defend himself.

Qate poked her head through the common room hatchway. "Quite a mouth on her," she chuckled. "Think I'm starting to like the little _chakaar_."

Lynli staggered wearily down the stairs to join them where they sat. "They just don't listen," she growled in frustration. "You should've seen what they tried to do to poor Wally. Tried refitting him with these tacky jump-jets and gyro stabilizers and other unnecessary mods; would've just overburdened his CPU trying to sort it all out."

"Poor guy," Aerek said. "Did he zap at them?"

"Oh he put up quite a fight before I broke it up with the hydrospanner," the Twi'lek chuckled. "He's awful sensitive about being touched by strangers. No idea why."

Disassembling the rifle again, Buruk asked, "So where's the Savior of Roche gotten himself?"

"Being wined and dined by the Verpines' elite. Seems he likes the taste of magenge and since Verpines don't need to breath, they're treating him to his home atmo."

"I bet he feels nice taking that mask off," Aerek mused as he watched Buruk work. "How do you think he sleeps in it?"

"Gands don't sleep," Qate answered, leaning in the hatchway. She wore a sweaty sleeveless shirt and skintight pants and held onto both ends of a damp towel draped over her neck; she sounded out of breath. "Not from what I hear anyway."

"Still, it must get uncomfortable, having to wear it all the time," Aerek continued. "Maybe we could get the Verpines to do something about that."

Buruk raised an eyebrow at his protégé, then looked over to Lynli. "How about it?" he asked. "Think you can stand the Verp techs touching your baby somewhere besides the engine room?"

###

Zxicz, the elder Verpine, was overjoyed that the Savior of Roche, Maalku Tekot, had agreed to accompany his hive siblings while they showed him their gratitude for the service he had done them. Sadly, he could not attend as well; he wanted to present the findsman with something special tomorrow, so he worked long into the night, digging through the Mad Queen's old files, cross-referencing them with HoloNet databases, and building a sizeable portfolio of information to work from.

Learning the history of Maalku Tekot's movements was difficult; he was not registered with the Bounty Hunter's Guild. Neither did he own a ship registered in his name or any alias Zxicz tried to connect with the Gand, which was strange since he had not traveled with his current companions the last time he had come to Roche but showed no records of ever booking public transit. Scooping up a handful of magenge, Zxicz settled in for what he expected to be a very long search indeed.

He'd been personally affected by the Mad Queen's reign; some of his closer siblings had been among the freeze-dried bodies she'd sold on the black market. A shudder ran through his carapace as he remembered opening the cryovault, labeled as exotic foodstuffs and addressed to a four-star restaurant on Kubindi, and finding members of his own people neatly sorted and packed away. He worked his mouthparts anxiously. One of those poor souls could easily have been him, had Maalku Tekot not delivered them from such a fate.

After several hours of data-crunching, Zxicz sat bolt upright at his terminal. No, that couldn't be right. The implications were just too terrible. He double- and triple-checked his findings as his heart thudded against his exoskeleton. There was no way around it, the figures stared him in the face, mocking him with the glow of the datapad on his chalky green body.

His hand darted for the comlink; he had to make a few calls to confirm this. It took several more hours and a few credit transfers to infochants but eventually he learned everything he needed to know.

His heart sank as he accepted the truth.

The "savior" Maalku Tekot had lied to them from the beginning.

###

The next day was full of carousing. The Verpines had put them up in the best accommodations in Nickel One's spaceport and from practically sunup, a rotating party of the rail-thin insectoids had been drinking it up with the crew in the nearby cantina. Despite his embarrassment, the raucous merriment of the occasion swept Maalku up and he couldn't help enjoying it. If they wanted to mythologize him as the Savior of Roche, who was he to argue?

The whole crew got soused while Tortoise and Shepherd recited their favorite Mando drinking chants, challenging all comers to arm wrestling matches, and even dancing the day away while everybody laughed and cheered. Flower and Thernbee played cards with the locals, each trying to spot the other cheating. Maalku decided to add to the fun by sharing one of his cheaper parlor tricks to tell people's fortunes.

He was mid-hexagram when the cantina door suddenly burst open, drawing all attention away from the celebration. Zxicz, the pale green elder Verpine, stood in the doorway with shoulders hunched and a blaster clenched in one hand, a dark silhouette against the bright light outside. He tilted his head toward his fellows, twitching his antennae furiously, a sour expression on his face. The other Verpines looked at him quizzically, cocking their heads from side to side in confusion. Some of them twitched their own antennae while most remained still. Maalku felt more and more uneasy as the scene unfolded in silence; even Thernbee seemed to sober.

Finally, Zxicz held up his comlink and said, "Why don't you tell them yourself, Maalku? Let's all hear the true story of the Savior of Roche." Somehow, even the radio transmission seemed to convey the sarcasm in his tone.

The findsman stood, regarding Zxicz carefully. "Maalku does not know what you're talking about, Zxicz," he said. The mists had given him no inkling of how this would play out; he'd seen no omens of swarming inferno beetles or whatever might represent the Verpines in his visions. His hand slowly began to drift behind him toward the empty chair where he'd propped his shockprod staff.

"Just why was it you showed up on our doorstep unannounced and took the Mad Queen from us?" Zxicz demanded, gesturing with the blaster. "What brought you here in the first place?"

Tortoise made as if to interpose himself between the two insectoids but Maalku waved him off. He frowned but obliged, putting a hand on his blaster just in case.

Maalku returned his gaze to Zxicz. "I came to collect a bounty placed on your hive mother. I was paid to come here."

"Paid?" some of the Verpines watching the confrontation murmured. They had bought into the legend that Maalku's arrival and subsequent return had been some sort of divine intervention. That such ridiculous notions could so easily take some sentients in disheartened him.

"Why don't you explain just who it was paid you?"

"He was a Kubaz—"

"Kalbirin the Long Snoot!" Zxicz cut in. "Pirate, slaver, and black marketer. The same black marketer the Mad Queen sold the bodies of our siblings to! He put a bounty on her when she stopped supplying him, cutting out the middleman and selling to those wretched creatures directly!" He stabbed an accusing finger at Maalku. "You just did his dirty work. You're no savior! You were in league with him!"

"I was never in league with him, it was just a job," Maalku warned. The accusations had made him angry, so he dispensed with humility. His hand hovered bare centimeters from his shockprod behind his back.

Throughout the whole exchange, the Verpines looked more and more confused. One of their elder members, who just yesterday had praised him most, now slandered one of their greatest heroes and accused him of terrible atrocities. The Gand couldn't take their disbelieving stares. Were they that ignorant, to elevate him to some god-like level of infallibility?

Zxicz was determined to rouse them from their complacency. "I won't have my people idolizing another monster!" he screamed, thrusting his blaster toward Maalku.

The Gand's three fingers closed around the shockprod's handle. He brought the staff around and slapped the gun away so that it fired harmlessly into the floor beside him, sending stunning jolts of electricity crackling up the Verpine's arm, numbing it.

But Maalku couldn't control the lethality of his comrades. The tension had strained to the breaking point and years of battle had reduced drawing a blaster and firing to a reflex for Tortoise. Zxicz staggered back with a smoking hole in his chalky-green chest. Maalku watched in horror as the elder Verpine collapsed to the floor, dead, while the others watched, stunned and shocked.

Maalku looked up from the body to the silent onlookers. "What's the matter with you?" he demanded, raising his voice. "Didn't you hear a thing he said?" No one moved or said a word. "There are no heroes in the galaxy anymore. Just people like us."

The damage was done. Tortoise stepped between Maalku and the crowd, training his weapon on them, and began backing him toward the door. The rest of the crew formed a protective circle around him as they left. No one else moved.

Maalku pulled his hat down over his eyes and hung his head in shame.

###

Back aboard the _Cuun'yaim_, the crew made ready for liftoff. They didn't have much to show for the trip to Roche, but after what happened with the Verpines, having everybody back unhurt was enough. Buruk made his way to the cockpit to pilot them out while Maalku trudged wearily toward his cabin in the aft section of the ship, leaning heavily on his shockprod staff as if it was a crutch.

After raising the boarding ramp, Lynli caught up to him and put a hand on his shoulder. "You all right?" She was worried about him. He always helped her sort her thoughts and feelings out, maybe she could return the favor.

A static hiss issued from his vocoder, the Gand's way of sighing heavily. "It's one of those things that make Tekot wish Tekot had never pupated." He paused, looked up at her as a frown crossed his insectoid features, and asked, "Why did they just stand there? The truth was right in front of them and they didn't do a kriffing thing. They're probably spinning a heroic tale about Tekot right now." He turned and continued walking toward the aft section.

Lynli's eyebrows shot up. Maalku actually swore? That was new. "Sometimes," she said carefully, "people just need a hero."

They came to Maalku's quarters where he paused and regarded the door quizzically. It had been replaced with an airtight hatch above which was a pair of colored glowlamps, one unlit red and one brightly glowing green. "What is this?" Maalku asked, sliding the door open to reveal a small antechamber with a sealed hatch at the far wall. Shelves stacked with canisters lined the right-hand wall.

"This is an airlock," Lynli stated, indicating the small space with a sweeping gesture. Then, pointing to two large buttons set into the left-hand wall, she said, "Seal the hatch behind you, then press the red one to lock it behind you and unlock the other door. We isolated your room from the main atmo feeds so you can take your breath mask off inside. When you're ready to come out, just seal that door, mask up, and press the green button to purge the ammonia from the airlock. Easy-peasy." She smiled down him.

"You didn't have to…"

"We wanted to," she insisted, and gave him a hug. "People like us do for each other."

He looked like he was about to cry if he'd been born with tear ducts. Instead, he just spread his mandibles behind his mask in an approximation of a humanoid smile. "Thank you."


	25. Tequila Twin Sunrise

Romantics liked to hold onto the notion of a soul mate, that there was someone out there meant for everyone. Unfortunately, there were approximately four hundred billion stars in the galaxy, roughly half of which had planets capable of supporting life. Only ten percent of those had actually _developed_ life and _sentient_ life rose up on only a thousandth of them. With nearly one hundred quadrillion beings roaming an area about thirty-seven parsecs wide, finding that someone presented a daunting challenge indeed.

_And I wound up with this bunch_, Lynli thought.

They'd set down on Tatooine; Mos Eisley spaceport was getting to be like a second home to them, where the _Cuun'yaim_'s crew went to find work. Buruk's Zabrak contact, Nilak, usually had jobs lined up for them, legal and otherwise. He was a part-time fence, money launderer, infochant, and middleman with a bowler derby and a sneer, and right now he and Buruk were engaged in a deep, philosophical debate concerning the finer points of salvage rights and how much the risks taken were worth to the parties involved.

"We got what you asked for," Buruk said, arms folded across his chest while he leaned over the vid display of Nilak's scruffy features. "Squibs were pretty _kaden_ about it, seeing as how their scouts marked it before coming back with a bigger ship."

"Occupational hazard, I'm afraid," Nilak replied casually. Lynli would've liked to punch the teeth out of that smug grin of his. He was a square dealer, sure, but he liked to lord over them whether they could afford to fuel the ship and eat. "Isn't that why you got guns on that Firefly of yours?"

"Once this sandstorm passes, we'll bring the cargo by," Buruk said, changing the subject. The Squibs were tenacious and the ship had actually taken a beating on the way out. "Have the money ready for us when we get there."

"Tell Qate I said hi," Nilak said before Buruk cut the transmission and his image disappeared in a cloud of static.

Buruk turned around and grinned at his partner with a playful look in his eyes. _So, he's in one of his good moods_,Lynli thought and smiled back. She sat across the cockpit from him in the copilot's seat, legs crossed and lekku draped casually over her violet shoulders.

She liked seeing him like this; it meant he wasn't worried about Jedi or Kex, the Mando traitor—aruetii, she thought in his language. His mindset was where she wanted it, in the moment with her, not dwelling on his past. Maybe it was the payoff coming to them, maybe it was the Jedi he'd killed on Ryloth, maybe it was the continued fading of the lightsaber scar over his right eye, but whatever the cause he was definitely more at ease these days.

"Care for a game of _cu'bikad_?" he asked, tossing his long red braid around his neck like a scarf. He'd been trying to teach her the Mandalorian game for while now. It involved stabbing blades into a checkered board, sort of like a cross between darts and chess.

"Sure," she said brightly, getting up and following him out of the cockpit.

"You know, we've got a lot of money coming to us from this job," he said casually as they made their way down the corridor toward the galley. "I know it's not exactly Cloud City, but I might be able to buy that dinner I promised you."

"And the slinky dress?" she chuckled.

"And the slinky dress," he added, laughing along with her. Yes, things were definitely brightening in the Buruk Department.

In the galley, Qate sat at the dinner table, cleaning the sawn-off barrels of her blaster carbine, boots propped up on the tabletop. Ganhuff stood nearby, making more advances while she scrubbed the carbon scoring out of the bores with a stiff wire brush. There was the slightest tinge of blue at the corners of his eyes, indicating he was mildly spiced. It seemed he could only function as long as he had a buzz; any other time he was either too high or too delirious from withdrawal to even speak, let alone work. "Letting your imagination run wild?" he asked casually, glancing down at the brush thrusting in and out of the barrel, then looked back up at her with a wink.

Lynli rolled her eyes. _Ridiculous._

"Doc, I could cut your _gett'se_ off," the Zabrak replied, not looking up from her work.

"I understand," he said, affecting a wounded tone. "You don't want to compete for my affections." He turned to Lynli, placing a hand theatrically over his heart. "Lynli, I'm sorry, but there's someone else. I know we shared something special, but the old Ganhuff must give way to a newer one, and the new Ganhuff is for only one woman—at a time…" He placed his hands on her shoulders and squeezed. "Can we still be friends?"

Lynli stiffened, eyes suddenly wide as dinner plates, as Buruk looked between them, confused. Her cheeks flushed and her heart raced.

"Am… I missing something?" he asked.

A few months ago the Mandalorian had mistaken Lynli's attempt at genuine affection for mere seduction and stormed out of a dinner she'd prepared just for him. She'd gotten so angry at him that she slept with the ship's lecherous doctor out of spite. It seemed like just desserts at the time but she'd felt so ashamed afterward, as if she'd only proven him right about her. She'd kept it her dirty little secret, trying to put the event behind her, but the _di'kutla_ doc had just laid it out in front of everyone; she was just glad Aerek was down in the cargo hold practicing staff fighting with Maalku so they hadn't heard it.

Lynli did the first thing that came to mind. She ran. Stiff-legged, she left the galley, heading aft to the engine room, and sealed the hatch behind her. For several minutes she just stood there frozen, slumped against the bulkhead, forcing her breathing to slow. _I can't believe he just did that, right in front of everyone!_ She slid down the wall into a sitting position and put her head in her hands, elbows propped up on her knees.

She sat there for several more minutes, just trying to let her mind go blank, but it was no use; the questions just kept invading. How would Buruk react? Would he think Ganhuff was joking or just spiced? Would she have to leave the ship? She hoped not. This was the longest she'd ever stayed in one place, relatively speaking. The fact that he'd named it the Mando'a word for "our home" hadn't been lost on her.

W4-L3, the ship's utility droid affectionately referred to as Wally, trundled up to her and whistled curiously. He was short, with a disk-shaped head dominated by a large blue eye surrounded by several smaller orange ones, and a blocky droid chassis on four wheeled legs. He practically lived in the engine room, rarely venturing from the ship for fear of molestation by ill-mannered organics.

"Not so good," Lynli answered him, looking between her fingers at his blue primary eye. While she didn't really know exactly what the little droid said, she could infer his meaning from the tones and sounds he emitted.

He tootled at her, raising pitch at the end as if asking a question.

"More trouble with You-Know-Who."

He hooted mournfully.

###

Buruk busied himself inspecting his arsenal, tweaking the sights on his new shatter rifle at the dinner table. _Typical_, Qate thought, crossing her arms over her chest. _Always retreats to his toys when he doesn't want to face something._

Aloud, she said, "So, you're not going to ask her what that was all about, then."

He set the small tool key down on the table and looked up at her, exasperated. "Why's it so important I talk to her?"

"Because that's what you're supposed to do for people you care about." She frowned at him, uncrossing her arms and planted them on the tabletop, leaning forward and glaring directly into his face. "Remember?"

He took up the tool key again, went back to adjusting the rifle. "She doesn't tell me about herself," he stated matter-of-factly.

"Show some _shabla_ interest and she may surprise you."

"Why do you even care?" he asked.

"Why don't you?" the Zabrak countered icily. After a pause, she stood straight and turned to leave. "Fine, I'll go talk to her."

She passed through the hatchway toward the engine room. Ganhuff had slunk off elsewhere, either to his quarters for another hit of glitterstim or off the ship entirely to find a sabacc game or a bottle to crawl inside. _He'd better pray I don't come across him, glitbiting _chakaarla _little wretch…_

She reached the sealed hatch to the engine room and rapped lightly on the durasteel. "Lynli," she called. "It's Qate. Open up."

The hatch parted a crack. "What do you want?" the Twi'lek woman asked warily. She heard no sobs in her voice, that was good. She was strong at least.

"I want to talk. Come on, open up."

"Do we have to talk here?" she asked. Wally whistled something behind her.

Qate sighed. "Come out, I know a place. Service is good and they don't water down the drinks." Then she added with a chuckle, "Can't afford to on this planet."

Lynli snorted and stepped out into the corridor. She looked reasonably composed, no tear streaks, no bloody knuckles or other physical injuries, and so far as Qate knew, she didn't stash any ice cream back here. "Okay. Drinks first, then talking."

###

The Methane Fix was the deceptive name of a small cantina just across Dune Street from their docking bay, so they could make it through the blowing sand without much trouble. Nestled in the shadow of the Dowager Queen, it was the most popular drinking establishment in Mos Eisley after Chalmun's. It boasted a wide array of exotic drinks from across the galaxy and stood out as the only cantina in the city to allow droid customers—provided they or their owners purchased two drinks for them every hour they occupied the building to make up for taking space away from potential drinkers.

Qate sidled up to the bar and handed over the sawed-off double-barrel blaster carbine that normally rode her hip. "Narcolethe," she ordered, then tossed a few credit coins on the bar.

The bartender handed over a foam-topped stein of thick, dark ale, then turned to Lynli who checked in her own, less robust blaster pistol. "And for you?"

"I'll have a Ruby bliel-tini."

Qate slapped her forehead and squeezed her eyes shut. _Could she have been any less _mandokarla_?_ To the barkeep, she said, "Get her an Alderaanian ale."

"What's the big idea?" Lynli demanded, eying the glass of pale amber liquid with disgust.

"Got to toughen up that liver of yours, _ner vod_. Drink up." And with those words, she downed her own large mug and, after wiping foam from her mouth, asked for another. "Ah, like mother's own milk!" she declared enthusiastically.

"So, what'd you want to talk about?" the Twi'lek asked, nursing her glass.

_Right to brass tacks, huh? All right._ "Why'd you run out in a fit like that? You really _nuhoy ti_ the doctor like he said?"

"_Nuhoy ti?_" she repeated with a confused look. "Go easy on the Mando, I haven't got it all figured out yet."

"You know, boff? Have a naughty? Sleep with?" She took a big gulp of her narcolethe. "_Nuhoy ti._"

Lynli's cheeks flushed and Qate had her answer. "Bit of advice," the Zabrak woman said. "Don't play sabacc. Anyway, why'd you go and do a thing like that? I gather you wanted to keep it secret from Buruk."

"I was mad at him," Lynli admitted, sipping her ale.

"And you thought that'd punish him."

"I wouldn't say I was really thinking."

"How'd you two meet, anyway?" Qate asked, genuinely curious.

"He tried to collect on my bounty, I knocked him out, then ran off with all of his money." Qate snorted. "Then he pulled me off a drifting starfighter to collect on me again but I rigged his ship so he needed me around to keep it flying. Been together ever since. What about you? How'd you two first hook up?"

Qate's smile faded and she ran a hand through her frizzy brown hair. "Crazy things happen after your number nearly comes up," she said, as if by way of explanation. "We were nineteen. I'd been idle for a few years, not at the top of my game but eager to rejoin Jango's standing army. Personnel just came and went as they pleased. Buruk, he stayed right there with him since day one, all the way up to… to Galidraan." She spoke the name of the planet reverently, as if it was some holy place, and took another drink.

"Anyway, we got tasked to shake down this service droid manufacturer that defaulted on a Banking Clan loan. You know how they are." Lynli nodded and she continued. "Jango decided it'd be best for a commando team to infiltrate the corporate HQ and take the CEO hostage, ransom him back to the company for what they owed, and collect our pay; easy as uj cake. Know who got to lead the team?"

"You?" Lynli guessed.

"Me. And when I tripped the _chakaar_'s office defenses, we got pinned down by six droidekas, ready to have our _5et'se_ for breakfast. Buruk left his perimeter station and led an all out assault on the HQ building, pulling my wounded _shebs_ out of the fire."

The Twi'lek nodded. "So you fell for him because he saved your life."

"No," Qate shook her head and she took a shuddering breath as unpleasant memories she'd pushed aside came flooding back. "That's just how we met. I fell for him because I was lonely and he made me feel whole, like a person again.

"I had a family on Ordo; a husband and daughter." She reached into a pouch on her belt and pulled out a holograph of herself, cradling a bundled infant in her arms and standing beside a red-skinned Zabrak man with his head shaved around his horns and a big bushy beard with mustachios braided into it. The sleeping baby's horns barely appeared as raised nubs on her bare skull and her serene face was unmarked. Both parents had big, happy grins splitting their tattooed faces.

"She's beautiful," Lynli breathed, gazing at the child's face. "What's her name?"

"Meshurok," Qate answered. "It mean's gemstone in Mando'a. His name was Roklan; it's a Zabrak name. I loved them both so much."

For several heartbeats they sat in silence, gazing at the holograph, until Qate returned it to her belt. "Anyway, that's the reason behind my grey armor; I mourn them everyday, and every night I recite their names so they live on for eternity. That's what we believe; if you remember someone your whole life, they're eternal and so is everyone they remembered. And when we're dead, we are too, thanks to whoever remembers us. That's what being part of the _manda_ is all about." She took a swig of her drink, then to break the grim atmosphere that had settled over them, added, "Buruk had better be teaching this to that boy or I'll stomp his guts out."

Lynli chuckled. She'd been ordering refills since Qate's story had begun and felt a little lightheaded. "So did you _nuhoy ti_ him?" she asked.

"Oh I boffed his brains out," the Zabrak answered with a grin. "So don't worry about him getting mad about you and the Doc. He hasn't got a chaste leg to stand on."

"Well now I need details. Barkeep, shots!"

Things got pretty wild from there and, thanks to a bottle of Corellian whiskey, neither Qate nor Lynli fully recalled how the conversation went, but eventually the Mandalorian woman asked, "Exactly why is it you're interested in a _chakaar_ like him anyway? I mean, _kaysh chaavla sa shebs be'striili_—he's rough as a strill's backside."

"Probably the same thing that drew you to him back then."

Qate slammed another shot, savoring the burning sensation and smoky aftertaste as it trickled down her throat. "That's making some awful big assumptions about me."

Lynli looked down at the floor, then back up to the other woman with an expression that said she was leveling with her. "I thought he was dangerous."

Qate snorted, nearly choked on her whiskey. "Did he use that _osik'la_ line on you?"

"What line?"

"Oh you know." She did a fair imitation of Buruk's voice and said, "Danger is my _first_ name." When the Twi'lek looked lost, Qate explained, "_Buruk_ is the Mando word for danger."

This time Lynli snorted. "His parents named him Danger?" She guffawed, slapping her knee. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. And he actually uses that line?"

"Used it on me at least a dozen times."

They laughed together for several minutes, until it hurt and they had to stop and suck in long, deep breaths. Several of the cantina patrons turned to stare at them but they ignored the odd looks and Lynli recomposed herself.

"I saw a psychologist once, years ago, after I escaped that slimy _shabuir_ Hutt," she explained. "He told me all these things about the cognitive processes of rape victims, how they usually turn promiscuous or seek relationships with men they think are dangerous. Maybe he was right; I did a lot of things I'm not real proud of to get by in the galaxy. But Buruk never took advantage of that; he never looked down on me, no matter how many times I came onto him; and he never cast me out. Thanks to him—his influence—I'm living the way I want to live: free. And I want to live free with him."

###

Aboard the _Cuun'yaim_, Buruk was engaged in the dogfight of his life. No matter which way turned, his opponent stuck doggedly to his tail, undeterred by even the fanciest flying. "Won't get me that easy!" he declared, raising his ship's nose and spiraling away from a deadly laser barrage.

"_Zap! Zap! Zap!_ Got you!" Aerek shouted excitedly, weaving the small plastoid facsimile of a Z-95 Headhunter in his hand through the air.

"Aw!" Buruk cried with mock indignity. Then he smiled, flipped his own toy ship upside down, and sent it hurtling down to the cargo bay deck. "Ka-boom! Nice flying, _ad'ika_." He reached out, ruffled the boy's dirty-blond hair, and was surprised when Aerek grabbed his wrist and rotated his arm around into a disabling hold. "_Jatne!_" he chuckled.

Suddenly the main entry hatch hissed open. Turning his head, he saw Lynli and Qate step aboard the ship, laughing about something. Lynli trotted up the stairs, across the catwalk, and up toward her quarters while Qate approached with a folded sheet of flimsi in her hand. "Here you go," she said as she passed, flicking it out to him between her index and middle fingers.

Buruk took it with his freehand and asked, "What's this?" He unfolded the paper and saw the sum of one thousand one hundred and forty credits written in neat letters and underlined.

"It's an invoice," Qate explained. "Two hundred and eighty five credits an hour for four hours of psychotherapy administered to one of your crewmembers. I thought about rounding it up to fifteen hundred but decided to give you a discount for old time's sake."

She grinned at him and looked to Aerek. "Good technique, but try placing your hand here on the shoulder for more leverage." Buruk felt a sharp stab of pain up and down his right side and gasped; Qate knew her way around a disabling hold. Releasing him, she strode off to her own room, calling back over her shoulder, "I told you to just talk to her."

As Buruk rubbed his shoulder, Aerek looked up at him and said, "I sure hope she doesn't walk in during marksmanship practice."

"Me too, Aerek. Be a good lad and put your toys away for now. Got to get this cargo to Nilak before he decides he doesn't want it anymore."

While Aerek gathered up the plastoid starfighters in his arms, Buruk climbed the staircases to the upper deck and found Lynli pouring herself a glass of water in the galley. Closing the hatch behind him, he sat down at the table with a sheepish look on his scarred face and said, "Okay… Let's talk."

"About what?" she asked, turning toward him.

"The Doc obviously wasn't just joking around, not with the way you acted earlier. What's going on between you two?"

"Nothing," Lynli insisted, sitting down across from him. "We just slept together." She looked him right in the eye as she said it, didn't even flinch. "I tried to do something nice and you rejected it, so I got mad and slept with him. That's all. It was petty and childish and I'm not proud of it, but there it is. Then things got weird between us and I didn't want to deal with it, but now I'm dealing with it."

Buruk was taken aback by her directness. That talk with Qate—and, judging by her breath, the alcohol involved—must have really loosened her up. He chewed his lip for a moment, thinking. He didn't feel betrayed; they weren't technically together so he had no more claim to her than Ganhuff had, but there was a jealousy there he couldn't deny. If he'd been younger, he'd have been tempted to cut the doctor's _gett'se_ off and feed them to him, then drop his _shebs_ off with the law.

"Just the one time?" he asked instead.

"Yes just the one time," she answered as if he should have known that already. She reached out and laid her hand on his. It felt warm. "Be mad if you have to be, but I want this to work."

Buruk nodded. "Okay. Then let's do this right. Dinner after we get paid for this cargo?"

"And dancing," she added, as if she were haggling over the cost of a new compression coil.

"A holo," he countered.

"Dancing," she repeated, not letting up. Buruk could see he wasn't going to win this one.

"Okay, dancing."

Lynli stood and strode to the aft hatch. "It's a date. See you then, Danger."

His mouth gaped and his cheeks burned as he watched her leave. Shabla _dalase_, he thought. Women.


	26. Next Contestant Part 1

Buruk should have recognized the telltale signs of a double-cross. Nilak had asked him and Lynli to deliver their cargo alone; he'd cited a preference to deal with as few of the Mandalorian's crew as he had to. That should've set off the little warning bell in Buruk's head. Going in, he noticed more than the usual number of guards waiting outside Nilak's Mos Eisley "clearinghouse," all heavily armed with subrepeating blasters; that should have been his second warning but he just assumed they were there to protect the goods he and his Twi'lek partner had loaded onto the repulsor sleds.

Buruk mentally kicked himself as he raised his hands into the air, far away from the custom six-shot blaster that rode in a cross draw holster on his unarmored left hip, and stared down the barrels of no less than six more subrepeaters. The armed guards flanked the overturned plasteel shipping crate that served as Nilak's desk, just itching to squeeze their triggers. "You got a funny way of thanking us for a job well done," he said, forcing nonchalance into his voice.

The Zabrak middleman kicked his feet up on the crate, tipping his cap back on his horned head. "I'm about as happy as you are, Kelborn, things going down as they are. Once word of this gets out, won't nobody hire on with me." He made a face, like the words tasted bitter in his mouth, then continued, "But the Hutt had me over a barrel and you know no one crosses their kind and lives to tell."

"Jabba finally figured it was us knocked over his pirated grain shipments, then?" Lynli asked, referring to a job they'd pulled a few months ago to help starving farmers on Buruk's homeworld.

"Actually," said a gravelly voice behind them, "the slug that wants you is called Ballador."

They both turned, forgetting the men holding them at gunpoint around Nilak, and looked at a trio of new arrivals stepping out of the dimly lit corridor into the office. The man who had spoken was tall, stout, with thinning, scraggly black hair, and yellow teeth, and kept his thumbs planted firmly in his gun belt while his companions stepped forward to relieve Buruk and Lynli of their weapons. All three wore matching red leather half-chaps. The Mandalorian glanced over to his partner as her expression hardened.

The Redlegs had finally caught up to them.

###

Ballador Desilijic Dessh's bulbous orange eyes shone with giddy delight as he wound his way through his uncle Jiliac's winter palace on Nal Hutta. Long-bodied and corpulent, he rode aboard a hoversled like many of his species, no longer able to move under his own power thanks to a rich, luxuriant lifestyle in his uncle's employ.

He'd been reclining in his office, puffing on his hookah pipe and tapping away at his datapad's oversized keys with fat stubby fingers, when his comlink chirped to inform him on an incoming message. It was Captain Tyrrel, the balding swoop gang leader he'd hired to dog Buruk Kelborn to the ends of the galaxy. Merely the thought of the Mandalorian who'd blasted his way into that very office and held him at gunpoint made Ballador clench his blubbery fists with such impotent rage that his knuckles popped. _Were it still possible, I'd crush that T-visored skull to a sticky red paste_, he thought.

"Evening, Your Bloatedness," Tyrrel greeted him irreverently with a mock salute. "Family doing all right? How's the weather? Foul as ever I hope."

The gang leader's sarcastic attempts at chitchat ground against Ballador's nerves. "What is it?" he asked irritably. He had to squint to make out Tyrrel's ghostly blue holo image; his physician had told him that too many decades staring at a data terminal had weakened his eyesight enough to require he wear corrective lenses—he admitted he was too miserly even for surgical correction—when looking at anything at a distance. His hand groped about the nearby food platters for his spectacles, perching them gingerly over the bridge of his nostril slits, bringing the pirate captain into sharp focus.

"Oh, nothing much," Tyrrel said casually, inspecting his dirty fingernails. "Just wanted to let you know me and my boys have your Mandalorian trussed up and unconscious in the brig." A year had almost gone by since he and his men had been hired to bring Kelborn in, and the Hutt was beginning to rethink retaining their services.

Ballador's hearts skipped a beat and he licked his suddenly dry lips with a wide, slimy tongue. "You're on your way here, I presume?"

"Twenty minutes to the landing pad," Tyrrel answered.

"Then I'll have the remainder of your payment waiting as agreed and you can be on your way."

"One more thing, Your Corpulence." The gang leader's lips parted in another smile that showcased his dirty teeth. "Remember the Twi'lek woman you said we could do whatever we wanted with? Well I'm interested in selling; let's talk price."

###

Ganhuff paced back and forth in the _Cuun'yaim_'s hold, the sound of his shoes scraping against the deck echoing off the bulkheads. He'd trudge from one end of the hold, glance occasionally at his chrono, and trudge back, frowning each time he did so. Two hours had passed and Buruk and Lynli still hadn't come back yet. Something was wrong, that much was clear.

He looked up as he heard footsteps on the catwalk above. Qate, the other Mandalorian on the ship's crew, looked back at him, her expression grim. She wore grey and red armor with a grey leather kama that brushed the backs of her thighs like a half-skirt and carried her battered blast helmet with its distinctive T-shaped visor tucked under one arm. "They're late," she stated matter-of-factly.

The doctor nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"They're in trouble."

He nodded again.

From the hatchway to the aft common area, their resident findsman moaned through the vocabulator of his breath mask. "Maalku should have foreseen danger." He hung his chitinous head shamefully, shaking it from side to side. "The farmer choked on the rutabaga that fed him…" he murmured, no doubt referring to one of his many esoteric visions. He was some sort of shaman, reading omens in the way bones fell or mist swirled, or some such nonsense.

"I think we should pay Nilak a visit," Ganhuff said at last, hoping he sounded resolute. His hands twitched for want of spice. As a surgeon, the very thought of unsteady hands was enough to jangle his nerves, already frayed from addiction.

"For once you and I agree on something, Doc," Qate replied, placing her helmet over her horned head.

###

They'd dragged her kicking and screaming all the way, laughing and groping as they went. Lynli's worst fears had been realized. She'd been kidnapped and sold to another Hutt who would use her as his plaything and then execute her once he grew bored. Providence only knew what Ballador planned to do with Buruk. They'd been separated the moment they took them from the ship.

She wandered the Hutt palace's slave quarter, dull-eyed; Lynli found it remarkable how easily she mimicked the habits of her old life, putting on a show of beaten-down submission. She wouldn't go so far as to say she was lucky, but the fact remained that they hadn't doped her. Maybe they thought they had enough armed guards ready to shoot anyone who tried to escape. Maybe they thought keeping their disposable slaves hooked on glitterstim or some other spice wasn't cost effective. Either way, she still had use of her full range of sensibilities.

The Redlegs had stripped her down and redressed her in a gaudy dancing outfit that revealed far more of her violet skin than she'd become accustomed to; after all, during her time with Buruk she'd developed _some_ modesty. At least she wasn't barefoot. She wore lizard-hide boots, so she didn't have to slog through the thick muck like some others.

Nal Hutta was most definitely _not_ the glorious jewel the name implied. The air was fetid and damp, wrapping everything on the planet with its foul pollutants like an uncomfortable blanket. Deadly chemilizards prowled the thick bogs, ensuring captives didn't stray too far from the slave quarter. Most residents milled about the central square where the ramshackle huts gave way to an open plaza dominated by a raised platform upon which several sets of duranium stocks and a primitive gallows had been erected. Lynli was certain they saw a lot of use.

Buruk would have remarked how surprisingly effective low-tech means of execution were. For a moment, she wondered if he would get to find out firsthand, then dismissed the thought almost immediately. No, Ballador had spent the better part of a year chasing the Mandalorian and Hutts never settled for such mundane means; he had to have something especially grisly in mind for her partner now that he finally had him in his clutches. _Anything less, and Buruk would just take it as an insult_, she thought fondly.

Then she frowned and wondered, _Why'd this have to happen now? _Haar'chak_,_ _I had him._ She'd finally gotten Buruk to agree to a date, an actual date, and before they could even get started, this happened. Then Lynli clamped down on those thoughts; now wasn't the time to wrack her brain over what might have been. She had to start planning an escape.

The slave quarter wasn't arranged in any sort of pattern that she could discern, no grid-work streets, or concentric dwelling rings around the square, or other more esoteric zoning styles. The shanties were arranged randomly, like a patch of mushrooms sprouting up from the marshy ground. That worked both for and against her; on the one hand, it made it hard for pursuers to track her through the slave quarter if she wished to disappear, but on the other hand, it made it very easy to get lost. On top of that, her captives had a distinct advantage over her; they were familiar with this place. Lynli would have to make it a point to learn her way around the slave quarter better than they did. Accomplishing that, she had to find out where they were keeping Buruk.

###

Buruk awoke to a throbbing skull and the sound of vibroswords clashing. Siit'ad, he thought, sitting up and fighting a wave of vertigo that threatened to overwhelm him as he moved. Tyrrel had jabbed a stun baton between his shoulder blades as they were herding them out of Nilak's office, putting him out instantly. _I'll have to repay him for that._

His eyes felt dry and scratchy as he cracked them open. Sunlight stabbed at them but he endured it, willing his vision to adjust quickly as he took stock of his situation. There was no pain in his neck as he moved his head, his arms and legs worked, as did the fingers and toes, and all his five senses. His prosthetic right eye still functioned and he'd acquired no new scars or bruises while he'd been unconscious. That surprised him; Buruk thought for sure the Redlegs would have roughed him up for the trouble he'd caused them.

Slowly he swung his legs off the cot he'd been laid out on and stood, shakily at first, then moved to a windowless opening in the wall of the bare prefab hut. Outside, dim sunlight filtered through dirty brown clouds on shone on the courtyard of what looked like many training camps Buruk had seen throughout his life. He saw at least three battle circles where several different species sparred with duraplas swords and shields, clubs, spears, and even bare hands. A cadre armed with the real thing monitored them and guards carrying blaster rifles watched over them all from towers set up along a heavy-duty durasteel fence.

The door squeaked as someone entered the room behind him. "Ssso you're finally awake," the newcomer said with a reptilian hiss. Buruk turned and saw it was a green-scaled Nikto standing in the doorway; it held out a pair of manacles in his hand. "Ballador wantsss to sssee you now."

Buruk snorted derisively and held his hands out to the jailer; any resistance and he'd just get another jab from a stun baton and he needed to be conscious to gather intel on the compound's layout. Then he could start formulating an escape. His hands cuffed, he followed the Nikto out into the muggy swamp air and almost choked on the thick pollutants. The last time he'd come to Nal Hutta, he'd had his armor and its filters; now he got to experience the planet's contamination firsthand.

The Nikto led him out of the compound through the front gate where a pair of Klatooinians armed with force pikes fell into step on either side of him. Buruk continued to follow silently, calculating the odds of taking down his three guards and escaping into the jungle; he didn't like his chances, so he simply followed. He was led to a side entrance to the Hutt's palace and they wandered along several dark, twisting corridors. In the blackness, Buruk strained his senses, trying to catch a sound, a smell, anything that could tell him where he was and what lay ahead.

At last Buruk was stopped on a small, slightly raised square patch of floor. Above him a tiny speck of light glimmered and dust motes danced through the air. He looked where he thought the Nikto stood and said, "I thought Ballador wanted to see me."

"He doesss," his escort replied evenly, removing the manacles from his wrists. "He wantsss to sssee you dead." The Nikto then stepped back into the shadows and with an audible click, the platform on which Buruk stood raised up toward the light.

###

"Nal-_shabla_-Hutta!" Qate swore.

As they left Nilak's clearinghouse and stepped out into the blinding twin sunlight of Tatooine, Ganhuff threw the Zabrak woman a wry look. "You have a charming way with words, Qate dear." She threw him a look of her own that said now wasn't the time and he decided to back off, holding his hands up placatingly.

"Well, now that we know where they are, getting them back should be easy-peasy," he said.

"Yes," Maalku added, adjusting his straw hat as they approached their docking bay. "Let us raise ship immediately and retrieve the Tortoise and the Flower."

"You heard him, Qate," the doctor said with a grin. "Fire up the engines."

"I would," the Zabrak replied testily, "if I knew how to fly."

Ganhuff stopped dead in his tracks, his smile faltering. "You're joking."

"Do I look like I'm joking?" No need for an empathic spice boost here; her expression said she most definitely wasn't.

"Maalku?" the doctor asked hopefully.

The Gand shook his head. "Maalku simply stowed away whenever he needed to go somewhere," he explained.

Ganhuff's head began to hurt. _I could certainly use hit right about now_, he thought. Aloud, he said, "Well I doubt little Aerek will be any help to us. We need a pilot."

In unison, the three said, "Chalmun's."

###

At a corner booth in Chalmun's Cantina, a man lay facedown on the tabletop, treating a hangover with his favorite cure: a little hair of the nek that bit him. The liquid in his glass glowed a pale neon green and was topped with a thick yellow froth that tingled his tongue whenever he took a swig of it. For now, though, he was simply content to hold the cool, sweat-beaded container pressed against his throbbing forehead. He was half-tempted to fling it at the band across the aisle; he wasn't sure if he was too soused to tell the difference or if they actually had been playing the same song over and over again for hours but he was getting sick of it.

He wore a battered, black tactical flight vest over a yellow spacer's coverall with its sleeved rolled up to expose the tattoos that covered both his arms. He had several piercings in each ear that glittered in the dim light of the bar through the thick strands of black hair that hung limply about his shoulders and a three-day accumulation of stubble on his jaw. He looked like the grungiest lowlife in a spaceport city full of grungy lowlifes.

In another lifetime, he'd been Morran Risant, hunt-saboteur and ace pilot. He'd flown a zippy little Skipray Blastboat and had been the bane of bounty hunters the galaxy over. Then his ship had gone down in flames and his entire livelihood with it; it had been like watching his navy career burn all over again. Since then, he'd beaten about the Outer Rim Territories like a leaf on the wind, aimless, without direction. He'd lost more than his livelihood with his ship; he'd also lost his sense of purpose. Now he just filled the void with lum and ale.

Morran barely noticed when a human male, a Zabrak female, and a Gand sat down across from him. _Well_, he thought hazily, _better start my pitch._

He sat up and cleared his throat. The female looked like she was in charge, armor-clad and face all tatted up; tough and street-smart by the looks of her, his kind of woman. He decided to address her. "Name's Morran Risant, I've flown every trade route from here to the Core, and since you folks look to be in a hurry, I'll just let you know I'm the best pilot here."

"Oh really?" the woman snorted, folding her arms over her chest. "Got any references?"

"If you've got the time," he replied evenly, taking a sip of his drink. He had to play it cool, not sound too desperate for work. _Just pretend you don't even need this job._ He felt the last few drops of liquid hit his tongue. _Even though you so badly do._

"My colleagues and I require passage to the Y'Toub system," the man said. He was fidgety, twitchy even; a glitbiter, Morran figured, just starting his dee-tees. "We have our own ship—"

"Just need a pilot," Morran finished for him. He reached a hand into a vest pouch and pulled out his cigarette case, clamped one between his lips, and returned the case to its pouch before he lit up, not offering any to his potential customers. "Let's not jerk each other's chains," he continued, exhaling a thin wisp of blue-grey smoke. "I'll take you to Nar Shaddaa for seven thousand."

"Nar Shaddaa's no good," the Zabrak pointed out. "We need to get to Nal Hutta."

"Kajidic business?" Morran asked, raising an eyebrow. These people didn't look like Hutt cronies to him and more than his share had chartered him.

"Our own business," she answered, her expression betraying nothing. "And we'll pay you eight thousand to keep it that way."

Morran's brows shot up and he almost dropped the cigarette right out of his mouth. "All right," he said, tapping ash off the tip with a flick of his hand, "you guys've got yourself a pilot. Give me a few minutes to down some caf and grab my bag and we can raise ship whenever you're ready."

###

"Whenever you're ready," Ballador's secretary droid said, its electronic voice somehow capable of expressing condescension. He'd had the old one replaced since Kelborn had stormed his office, sending the spineless automaton to the scrap pile. The new model was a marked improvement over its predecessor, with a less sniveling personality and a defensive subroutine in its programming, should a similar incident ever occur.

Ballador reclined on his hoversled, snacking on a delicious batch of nala tree frogs kept in a nearby aquarium. Beside him, Captain Tyrrel lounged in a plush chair that looked far too regal for his unkempt appearance, twirling his blaster pistol theatrically. Why the man and his swoop gang kept hanging around after they'd gotten their pay escaped the Hutt. He eyed the troupe of slaves standing before them lecherously as the droid spoke, winking and blowing kisses at them whenever he caught their eye.

A band stood arrayed against one wall, a quartet of four-armed Codru-Ji—also slaves—each playing two instruments apiece. They struck up a lively tune with sitars and balistophones and at the droid's command the women began to dance. They spun and weaved, flaunting their bodies, jiggling what males liked to see jiggle. The music accentuated their movements and vice versa, lending an exotic flair to their already exotic appearances.

The dancers were dressed in sheer, all-too-revealing outfits; the Hutt adjusted his spectacles as he wrinkled his nose in disgust. He didn't care for their pale, skinny kind, with their prominent breasts and almost non-existent waists. Unfortunately, it fell to him to have them inspected to ensure they would make a proper gift to his cousin Jabba, whose tastes diverged significantly from his own. _My dear cousin is a degenerate if ever there was one_, he thought, reaching a hand into the aquarium, and popping a frog into his mouth. He'd much rather have been at the arena, watching the hated Mandalorian disemboweled by all manner of ravenous beasts.

Ballador suddenly realized he recognized one of the dancers. He blinked and peered closer, squinting through the lenses to get a better look at them. Each of their faces looked as plain and lifeless as the droid's, beaten down and submissive, save one: a Twi'lek with violet skin and gold eyes. Her face was a mask of contempt and her focus was directed entirely at him. Presently, he realized he knew the woman who cast such a venomous eye on him.

Tyrrel caught his attention and offered a wide, yellow grin. "Tasty looking thing I sold you, ain't she?" He turned his head to her and licked his lips in a way the made her shudder ever so slightly.

Ballador gestured with a flabby arm for the dancers to stop. "Enough!" he bellowed. The band fell silent and the bounding women stilled, forming into a line before their master. He turned to his assistant and asked in Huttese, "What do you think?"

"By humanoid standards, they are all quite pleasing," the droid answered. "I am sure your cousin will enjoy them."

"Very well," the Hutt replied, turning back to the row of slaves. While he wasn't attracted by such displays, they would have to do.

"You," he declared, pointing the Twi'lek out. "You are Kelborn's companion, the one called Lynli Vairn." He made it clear in his tone that he wasn't asking. "I understand you are a Hutt-killer. When Jabba visits next week, I shall present you to him personally." Ballador chuckled, a low rumbling sound that vibrated the transparisteel windows. "Perhaps he'll let you see your friend again… in the next world!"

###

The platform rose into position and Buruk found himself standing at the center of a small circular arena, the stands packed with Hutts and their retainers, cheering and hollering at the spectacle below. Before him were a Togorian, a Kel Dor, and a Gamorrean, all heavily armed and all wearing a hodgepodge of different armor styles that would have put his crusading ancestors to shame. Buruk suddenly felt very naked, clad only in a loose-fitting sleeveless tunic, a pleated kilt-like garment, and a pair of simple leather sandals. _Not exactly _beskar_._

Well, since they expected him to duke it out straight up, he'd do the exact opposite. He ignored them and sat down in the sand to the crowd's dismay. The trio lowered their weapons and looked at him, confused. "Uh… you're supposed to fight…" the Kel Dor said through his breath mask.

Buruk looked up at him like a man who just wanted to die. "Don't want to," he replied forlornly. _If this actually works…_

"At least stand up," the Kel Dor insisted. "This is just shameful."

The Togorian mewled derisively and the Gamorrean squealed in agreement.

"So this is the feared Mandalorian fighting spirit?" a voice boomed over a loudspeaker. The crowd roared its displeasure.

The Togorian yawned and looked away.

The Kel Dor said, "Mandalorian huh? Thought you were supposed to be hell on legs. Guess you're not so tough without your armor."

"Don't want to go there, mate," Buruk warned, watching the others carefully.

"You don't say," the Kel Dor continued, thinking he'd found a button to push. "Is it true you Mandos let anyone dress up and play soldier-of-fortune with you? Even queers?" He chuckled. The Gamorrean turned his head and began picking his ear. "No wonder the Jedi killed them all so easily."

Seeing his opportunity, Buruk sprang to his feet, lashed out, and grabbed the Kel Dor's goggles, jerking them to the side, blinding him and forcing him to drop his vibrosword as he staggered back and reached up to realign them. The crowd cheered.

Buruk threw himself to the ground as the others returned their attention to him, ducking below the Togorian's vibro-ax as he brought it around. The blade sailed over him and struck the Gamorrean square in the chest, lodging itself in the porcine alien's body. The Gamorrean let out an anguished squeal and flopped over backward, dead. Buruk wrapped his fingers around the Kel Dor's vibrosword and tumbled between the giant Togorian's legs. Now behind the great hairy beast, he turned, leapt into the air, and buried his weapon up to the hilt in the chink in the Togorian's armor between its neck and shoulder. It fell to its knees, dumbstruck, and landed on its face. Thunderous applause drowned out its dying cries. In seconds, he'd evened the odds against him.

_No time left. _By now the Kel Dor had fixed his goggles and straightened up. Before he could turn back to the Mandalorian, Buruk leapt, planting one hand on the back of the alien's lumpy orange head and the other beneath the masked chin. With a hard twist accompanied by a sickening wet crunch of separating cartilage, the Kel Dor's body twitched once, then fell to the ground like a rag doll.

A hush fell over the crowd and Buruk stepped away from the corpse. He looked out at them, at the Hutts and their gathered servants and sycophants, and felt the adrenaline rushing through his veins. He raised his arms triumphantly and shouted into the stark silence, "_Mando'ade_!" They didn't respond, so he shouted again. "_Mando'ade_!" He strutted around the arena with his fists in the air, letting a grin split his scarred features. "_Mando'ade_!"

Then a gate opened in one wall of the arena and his grin melted away as four more gladiators stepped out into the open. Shab, Buruk thought, trying to catch his breath. A Trandoshan stalked toward him at the head of the pack, followed closely by a Togruta and a pair of Whipids, and the crowd began to cheer again. Buruk went to the fallen Togorian and retrieved the vibrosword.

_If only I had my _beskar'gam, he thought, bringing the sword up to parry the Trandoshan's blow. The Mandalorian suit of armor had more weapons and surprises built into it than most planetary militias and Buruk felt its absence distinctly. He wasn't reliant on it, not at all, but it would have made things easier for him.

He sidestepped past the big saurian, stabbing at a Whipid armed with a club. The shaggy brute raised a durasteel shield, absorbing the impact, and tried to push him over; Buruk instead used the counterforce to dodge a downward swing from the Togruta's electrostaff. Energy crackled from the weapon as its energized tip passed bare centimeters from his head, making his hair stand up, and struck the sand of the arena floor. The crowd was going wild now, crying for more blood.

The Togruta came at him again, head tails flailing wildly as it jabbed the electrostaff forward. Buruk ducked his head to the side, dodging the deadly tip, and grabbed hold of the shaft with his free hand. Pulling his opponent in closer, he smashed his fist—still holding the vibrosword—into the Togruta's bright red face. Blood spurted from the alien's crushed nose and Buruk thrust the tip of his sword through its throat.

The first Whipid chose that moment to bring its club crashing down across his back. Buruk toppled over the dead Togruta and sprawled facedown on the ground. He rolled, barely avoiding a second blow from the heavy war club and kicked the huge alien in the chest; it had no more effect than to make his own leg ache. The other Whipid kicked him in the side, hard, and he felt a rib give. He winced, tumbling sideways a meter and a half, and slowly rose to his feet. "_Tion'ibac an gar ganar?_" he wheezes, the wind knocked out of him. "My granny hit harder than you." Maybe it would scare them. _Yeah, and Kowakian monkey lizards will fly out of my _shebs, he thought cynically.

He backed up to the Gamorrean's body and picked up its weapon, a heavy spear. He brandished it as the Trandoshan approached. It wielded a large, curved ryyk blade in its clawed hand, probably taken from a slain Wookiee. It charged, Buruk thrust with the spear, and the Trandoshan simply chopped the head off his weapon, turning it into a simple quarterstaff. Buruk stepped back and brought the spear shaft up to block as his attacker swung the heavy blade down at the top of his skull. The shaft split in two, leaving Buruk holding either end like a pair of tonfa. Without hesitating, he swung the weapon in his left hand, smashing it against the saurian's right knee, bending it at an odd angle. The Trandoshan hissed painfully and slammed his fist into the Mandalorian's face. Buruk spat out a tooth and a stream of blood. "Ha!" he laughed in his opponent's face.

It swung the ryyk blade again and Buruk stepped into the attack, crossing his weapons before him. The Trandoshan's wrist caught at the crossing point and Buruk brought his knee up into the big lizard's groin. The Trandoshan's slit-pupiled eyes bulged and he dropped his weapon. The Mandalorian smashed his tonfa into both sides of its neck, crushing its main arteries. It died gurgling.

That just left the two Whipids charging him as one. Buruk dropped the shaft in his right hand, snatched up the fallen ryyk blade, and hurled the other half of the spear at the leftmost Whipid's face. It bounced harmlessly off its raised shield but Buruk charged it head on, swinging the blade with all of his might. He smashed the weapon against the Whipid's shield, took a grazing strike to the shoulder from the other, armed with a pair of vibroknucklers, and swung again, scoring a minor cut on the Whipid's club arm. The shaggy monster roared, its cry mingling with the crowd's own, the sound of pure bloodlust. The Whipid swung its shield and Buruk dove to the ground, slashing at its feet. It stepped back and the Mandalorian rolled away from its fellow's deadly fists, not quite fast enough. A vibroknuckler dug a gouge in his thigh.

Grabbing a handful of dirt, he threw it into the second Whipid's eyes, blinding it. He turned back to the first, ducked a blow from its club, sidestepped a follow-up from its shield, and thrust the ryyk blade up under its ribs. It fell back with the Wookiee weapon buried up to its hilt. Buruk grabbed its shield and turned in time to ward off an attack from the other Whipid.

It slashed and punched, driving him back with its ferocity. Its weapons were like a pair of brass knuckles with a vibroblade protruding from the center. It slammed them against the shield over and over until finally one caught. Before the Whipid could try to pull its hand free, Buruk twisted hard, heard its elbow break. The Whipid howled and the Mandalorian yanked the shield free of its weapon. He slammed it against the Whipid's knees, driving it down, and then smashed it in the face, over and over, until very little remained to be recognized.

Gasping for breath, Buruk stood in a daze, dropping the shield from numb fingers. The crowd had gone silent again, amazed by what it had just witnessed. "_Mando'ade_!" he shouted.

_TO BE CONTINUED…_


	27. Next Contestant Part 2

Ballador wrung his chubby hands as he watched the recording of Kelborn's display in the arena a day after it occurred. The Mandalorian had not only killed seven experienced gladiators single-handedly, the med droids said he'd also sustained only minor injuries.

"Man knows how to fight," Tyrrel, the swoop gang leader that had captured him said, impressed. He tucked his thumbs into his belt and made a clucking sound with his tongue. "Mandies ain't got a reputation for nothing, that's for sure."

Ballador inclined his enormous head, the closest thing to a human nod the Hutt could manage. "However shall I kill such a man?" he rumbled, lifting his fez hat and mopping oily sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. On the one hand, it cheered him to know he hadn't missed Kelborn's death, but witnessing the ferocity of his fighting spirit put a chill in Ballador's hearts.

"Let me do it," the Redlegs' captain insisted. "I still got a score to settle with him. All I need is my bike."

The idea of Tyrrel fighting Kelborn from atop a speeding swoop bike like some mounted knight of legend wielding a power lance amused Ballador. "Let us see how long the Mandalorian's luck lasts," he said. "If he can take on a gauntlet, you shall have your chance."

"Why not just be done with it?"

"The sport of it's half the point, Captain," Ballador answered, removing his spectacles and turning to his data terminal. He had much work to catch up on, balancing the Desilijic clan's budget. Busy, busy, busy, that was the life of Uncle Jiliac's top accountant.

###

Morran Risant followed his three customers out of Chalmun's cantina into the blazing hot suns over Mos Eisley. He winced and shielded his eyes from the glare; the cup of caf he'd drunk had cleared his head but it didn't help the rest of his hangover.

The three had introduced themselves as Qate Jularc, the female Zabrak in the grey armor; Ganhuff Riscan, the human male who looked like he was itching for a dose of glitterstim; and Maalku Tekot, the Gand Findsman who'd insisted on calling him "Thranta."

_Hell, for eight thousand credits, he can call me a nerf._

He expected their ship to be some tramp freighter, a rusty old bucket of bantha poodoo held together with mesh tape and good wishes. When he stepped into the docking bay, though, he stopped in his tracks and looked up in awe at the Corellian Engineering Corporation 03-K64-_Firefly_-class transport. It was beautiful, with its oblong body tapering at the end to the main drive, twin maneuvering thrusters on swiveling pylons like stunted wings, and a cockpit that reared up from the hull like a ronto's head and neck. A little utility droid perched atop the ship, whistling contentedly to itself as it made repairs; sparks flew from its arc welder in fits and bursts. _I'm in love_, Morran thought.

"That's your ship?" he asked hesitantly, hoping he didn't sound too interested. Discretion, in most cases, was essential to getting paid. He was afraid this might all be some cruel joke.

"Yeah," the woman, Qate, answered. "Real piece of junk, huh?"

"Junk?" the pilot protested, discretion totally forgotten. He hadn't even stepped onboard and already he knew he and the Firefly were somehow linked. "This ship is amazing!" He strode up to the waiting vessel and put a hand on the cold durasteel hull. He could feel something pulling him to it, an unspoken bond between man and machine; it felt to him like destiny. He couldn't wait to get a look inside, trotting up the ramp excitedly to check out the cockpit.

There was a boy, ten or eleven years old, sitting there at the copilot's station. His dirty blonde hair was long and unkempt and he was dressed in clothes that were clearly too big for him, sleeves rolled up and pant legs tucked into ankle spats to keep them from dragging across the floor. He took a shuddering breath that stopped Morran in the hatchway and the pilot could see he'd been crying.

Morran cleared his throat. "You, uh… you okay there, kid?" he asked uncomfortably. _Pretty obvious he's not, you idiot_, he chided himself. "What's wrong?"

The boy turned in his seat, frowned, and turned his tear-streaked face away. "Nothing," he insisted.

Morran sat down in the pilots seat across from the boy and tried to familiarize himself with the controls. "My name's Morran," he introduced himself, glancing through the ship's spec files. His brows shot up when he saw the Firefly had both a class one-point-five hyperdrive _and_ a SubLight Acceleration Motor. Then, returning his attention to the boy, he asked, "What's yours?"

"Aerek," the boy sniffed. He sounded like he was trying to keep himself from crying again. Poor kid. What could have upset him?

Morran reached up and took the comlink in his hand, held it up to his mouth. "Okay travelers, best button her up. I'm about ready for liftoff."

"Where are we going?" Aerek demanded, a hint of fear edging his voice. "We can't go! Buruk and Lynli haven't come back yet!"

What was the kid on about? Had an aunt and uncle ditched him with this crew or something? Maybe sold him? Not unheard of on Tatooine. And with the destination he'd been given…

Morran wasn't fond of slavers and made it a point never to work for them when they came along offering transport jobs. He looked over at the boy and answered cautiously, "We're headed for Nal Hutta…"

Aerek wiped his sleeve across his nose, sat straight up, and stood, leaving the cockpit without another word. Morran watched him go with raised eyebrows as he fired up the ship's repulsors, amazed at the aggressive feeling the kid gave off.

###

Aerek stormed down the corridor toward the galley, stopping off at his room to pick up the vibrodagger he'd scavenged from Coruscant's undercity. He tucked the small blade up the sleeve of his oversized tunic, concealing it within the voluminous folds, and continued through the galley, trotting down the stairway to the aft passenger section. He wasn't sure what he would do with the knife but he wanted answers.

Anger burned away the worry and despair that had filled him only moments before, like a sun evaporating the puddles left behind by a rainstorm. Why were they going to Nal Hutta? _We'd better not be leaving them_, he thought. _I swear I won't let them!_

He stopped before Qate's room, glaring at the door. She would be the one making the plans here; Ganhuff was too weak to stand up to her, even if he had the will to, and Maalku, he was a follower by nature. He'd get her to tell him everything, even if he had to pull the blade on her.

Aerek keyed the door open—only the Gand's airtight chamber had a lock, for practical purposes—and the second he stepped through, the world exploded into blinding white light that washed away his vision. A split-second later, everything went black.

He came too a minute later, sitting upright on Qate's sleeping pallet. The boy couldn't feel his hands but could see they lay limply in his lap, shackled in a set a binders; his ankles had received a similar treatment. _What… what happened?_ He wondered.

Aerek blinked several times as his vision returned and a massive headache threatened to make him vomit. After a moment, he focused on the Zabrak woman, no longer wearing her armor, as she sat in a plastoid chair across the room, holding up his vibrodagger for inspection.

"Buruk obviously didn't get around to teaching you room clearing procedure," Qate said, studying the blade. "You don't just charge in without making sure the doorway isn't booby trapped. By the way, I keep a stun blaster hooked to a tripwire by the door. Next time knock."

Aerek glowered at her as the feeling returned to his extremities. "Who's this Morran _chakaar_?" he demanded. "Why is he flying us to Nal Hutta and where the _shab_ is my dad?"

Qate looked taken aback, as if she hadn't expected him to call Buruk that. _Well deal with it, lady_, the boy thought. _He still treats me like a son, even if he hasn't adopted me._ Then, with a bit of hope, he added, _Yet._

When she regained her composure, she frowned at him and said, "Watch your language, _ad'ika_. I ought to paint your back porch red for talking like that, but that duty falls to Buruk." She looked at him levelly, her expression honest. "A Hutt with a grudge against Buruk has gotten a hold of them. _Suvari?_"

The boy swallowed past a lump in his throat and nodded.

Qate unshackled him and put her arms around him in a comforting hug. "I promise we'll do everything we can to get them back," she said. If Aerek didn't know what a hard woman she was, he'd have sworn he heard a stifled sob in her voice.

###

Lynli twitched her lekku in frustration as she came upon yet another dead end. _We need to have a serious talk about community planning_, she thought grimly, shifting the weight of the serving tray in her hands. Then, heaving a sigh, she spun on her heel, somehow managing to avoid spilling to bowls of unappetizing-looking gruel, and headed back the way she'd come. The Hutt palace was arranged almost as haphazardly as the slave quarter, but to her trained eyes, the con artist could tell it was by deliberate design, to throw off intruders. She had to applaud the slug that had thought about internal defense when contracting his architect.

Captain Tyrrel and his Redlegs had dumped the Twi'lek here several days ago, after selling her to Ballador Desilijic Dessh, lowly accountant to his much more powerful uncle, Jiliac, and cousin, Jabba. Lynli rolled her eyes at the thought of the bespectacled, fez-wearing Hutt, so bloated that he couldn't move under his own power any longer. _He must take a pretty grand view of his job, dressing himself up like a _shabla_ doll_.

A band of guards had come to the slave quarter earlier that day and rounded up a large group of captives for the daily labor detail and for various Hutts' entertainment They'd selected her for all the same reasons she'd been a slave before: her species, its natural grace, and beauty. _And let's be honest_, Lynli smirked, still wandering the corridors, _my smoking hot body._

She was trying to find her way down to wherever the Hutts kept their more violence-prone prisoners; that'd be where they were keeping Buruk. She'd heard rumors from the other slaves that he'd been involved in some sort of gladiatorial execution that had completely backfired, as he'd been able to slay every one of his executioners single-handedly. There was a lot to say for Mandalorian fighting ability.

"Hey you!" a voice called from behind her.

Lynli squeezed her eyes shut and mouthed to herself, Osik_!_ Then she turned, making herself appear meek and submissive. A guard approached, armed with a force pike. Lynli thought about all the Teräs Käsi techniques Master Grom Sang had taught her to disarm him, render him unconscious, and be on her way. _But that would pretty much spell the end of your covert actions, wouldn't?_ she berated herself.

The guard grabbed her arm and she had to restrain herself from taking his wrist and placing it none too gently between his shoulder blades. "Where do you think you're going with that?" he demanded, pulling her along the hall.

"Uh," she injected a stammer into her voice, mentally rolling her eyes. "I-I was told to b-bring this… to the f-fighters." _I'd like to thank the Academy…_ "But I can't find where they're k-kept…"

"Well you're in the wrong wing for starters," he growled, pulling her along roughly. "And secondly, the ones who get that slop are housed apart from the main palace, on the north side."

"T-thank you, sir," she finished. Then, steeling herself against the revulsion she felt for such an act, she leaned up and kissed the guard on the cheek in thanks. Before he could say anything further, she scampered away toward the north side of the palace.

Once there, she talked her way past the guards in a similar fashion, and started searching the cells for Buruk. She found him on the floor of his cell doing crunches. He had his long red braid tossed around his neck like a scarf and sweat beaded on his forehead and soaked the collar of his tunic as he counted aloud in Mando'a. "_Shek'eta ehn… Shek'eta cuir… Shek'eta rayshe'a…_"

"Buruk!" Lynli whispered to him as she dropped the tray of gruel and rushed to the bars of his cell.

The Mandalorian saw her and his green eyes lit up. He pulled himself to his feet and crossed to the bars to meet her. They sank to the floor, relief flooding through Lynli as she grasped his hands through the iron bars, feeling near tears.

"Thank the _manda_ you're safe," he whispered, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. "What's that _shabuir'la_ Hutt been doing to you?" He searched her face for marks or bruises.

"He's planning to give me to Jabba tomorrow," she answered.

Buruk frowned. "Scuttlebutt has it, Ballador's got something special planned for me tomorrow. Seems I really ticked him off by living."

"Well just remember who you'll tick off by dying," she said, giving his braid a playful tug.

He gave her a pained expression, then turned serious again. "We can't afford to get separated. Can you get out of the slave quarter?"

"Easy as uj cake," she answered. "There's no fence or guards keeping us end; just a bog full of deadly predators."

"Well _shab_. Maybe I can make a break for it from the arena and come get you," he suggested.

"A one-man assault on the Desilijic clan palace?" Lynli raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You're good, Buruk, but you're not that good."

He nodded ruefully. "Yeah, that would be more than a little _jare'la_," he admitted.

"Ballador's going to present me to Jabba at the arena," she explained. "We can hook up their and try to make it out to the jungle together."

"All right," he said, though his face told her it was anything but. "You'd better get going before they miss you."

With those parting words, he gave her fingers another squeeze, and then let her go.

###

The next morning, Buruk awoke to the creak of his cell opening. The guards didn't enter; he gave them credit for that. He held his hands up where the they could see them and waited for the binders to be slapped around his wrists. He waited longer than he expected.

Eventually he decided they weren't coming and opened his eyes. The guards remained outside the cell, keeping their blasters trained on him as he stood. "No rough stuff today, _burcy'e_?"

The lead guard replied, "Today's special, Kelborn. You get to wear armor and everything."

_Rather have my _beskar'gam, he thought. "What's the occasion?" he said aloud.

"Ballador's entertaining Jabba today. Wants to put on a good show with you as the main attraction."

They escorted him to the armory on the way to the arena, where he could choose from a wide variety of weapons, shields, and armors. Sadly, the only piece of equipment he found of Mandalorian design was a Death Watch helmet with its T-shaped visor smashed out. He left the armory clad in an Iridonian combat vest and carrying a ryyk blade slung at his hip.

They didn't take Buruk through the winding dark tunnels this time; he was led above ground through a series of cellblocks where the guards unlocked a set of durasteel gates at each checkpoint they passed. Eventually they came to the end of the line. Beyond the last gate, Buruk could see the sun-drenched sand of the arena spread out before him. The seats were packed with sentients, the crowd churning like a Manaan ocean, alive with expectation for the bloodshed to come.

The gates parted and he stepped out into the open as the crowd erupted with applause and shouts. He cast his gaze about his audience, spotting a box where two Hutts lounged with sycophants nearby and, off to one side, a violet-skinned Twi'lek female in a slave girl's revealing outfit. _Lynli…_ He marked their location in case he had to fight his way to her.

From somewhere above, a loudspeaker announced in Huttese, "Ladies and gentlebeings, Ballador Desilijic Dessh is proud to present to you, Kelborn the Mandalorian!" The crowd cheered and whistled, clapping and making catcalls that nearly deafened him. Once the noise returned to a dull roar, the announcer continued, "And his executioner…" He paused to let a ripple of laughter course its way through the audience. "Gartogg the Bone Crusher!"

A gate at the far end of the fighting space opened and a Gamorrean stepped out into the open where the crowd revered him. He didn't waddle or glance about; he kept his beady dark eyes fixed entirely on Buruk, his stride confident and sure. He carried an enormous axe-like arg'garok in both hands, the muscles in his arms appearing relaxed like durasteel bands rather than straining under the massive weight.

_So, he's experienced_, the Mandalorian thought as he sized his opponent up. Only the strongest and best trained of Gamorr's warriors could wield the arg'garok effectively. _Probably a professional._

They circled each other, weapons held ready, for several moments before the Gartogg struck. The heavy blade of the arg'garok swung laterally toward the Mandalorian's left shoulder. Buruk ducked and tumbled forward and to his left but stopped himself short when the Gamorrean somehow managed to shift the heavy axe's momentum mid-swing and bring it crashing down into the sand before him.

Buruk backpedaled several steps while Gartogg pulled his weapon from the ground. _He's good_, he thought warily, stepping in and out of the Gamorrean's range, testing his responses. _Got to feel him out._

###

In Ballador's luxury box, the Hutt and his cousin watched the human and Gamorrean toy with each other. Or rather, Ballador watched while Jabba's attention was continually diverted away to some business concern or another by his Twi'lek majordomo. The accountant found this excessively irritating, to have gone to the trouble of securing meals and entertainment for his cousin, only to have him ignore it completely.

At least he seemed pleased with the slave girl he presented to him; Lynli Vairn wore her customary look of disgust, both when dealing with Jabba and the majordomo, Bib Fortuna. She tried to ignore her fellow Twi'lek's attention as much as possible, her gold eyes transfixed on the scene below where her partner fought for his life against one of the best gladiators-for-hire in the galaxy. _Go ahead ant watch_, Ballador thought, adjusting his fez. _He'll be dead in moments and I'll at last be avenged._

The two combatants continued to trade blows, striking and evading, Gartogg keeping Kelborn on the run. It was amusing to watch, the Mandalorian so intimidating and brazen in his armor, reduced to running for his life without it. Well, perhaps not really running; he still managed to put up a fight. _That can of course be changed._

Ballador keyed the comlink built into his hoversled, saying aloud, "Captain, you may proceed."

Jabba looked over at him, eyes dull and bored.

"Fear not, cousin," Ballador assured him. "Things are about to get more interesting."

From another gate down below came a whining screech, a repulsor engine firing at full thrust, and suddenly a swoop bike launched into the arena like a proton torpedo being fired from its tube. Upon it sat Tyrrel, the leader of the Redlegs who bore a grudge against Kelborn almost as strong as the Hutt's own. He circled the two fighters, slowly closing in on them. His strategy was simple and immediately apparent to Ballador: he planned to hem them in so that Kelborn couldn't keep retreating. Eventually either he or the Gamorrean would get lucky and Tyrrel would likely finish off the other.

But then Tyrrel surprised Ballador by pulling a blaster pistol from his bike and firing into the melee. The shot went wide, the captain hadn't compensated enough for his own speed, but he sighted along the barrel and squeezed the trigger again.

###

Lynli stared in horror as Buruk went down, clutching his right shoulder. She wanted to jump down to the arena floor and help him or attack the two Hutts keeping her prisoner up in the luxury box, but either course would have been suicide. Instead, she watched helplessly as her partner rolled out of the way of another blow from the Gamorrean and regained his feet.

Tyrrel maneuvered his bike out several meters, then set himself up to charge Buruk full speed. The engine roared like a wild beast, a bloodthirsty primal sound that rang out over the teeming crowd. Maybe the gang leader planned to splatter him against the swoop's front steering vanes or trample him beneath the repulsor field. Either way, his plan would result in Buruk's instant death. Lynli squeezed her eyes shut, then couldn't help herself and peeked.

Tyrrel failed. Buruk managed to throw himself out of the way at the last second, leaving the swoop bike to zoom past Gartogg at top speed while the Gamorrean swung his giant axe for the spot where the Mandalorian's head had once been. Instead, the blade caught Tyrrel in the stomach, throwing him from the driver's saddle with enough force to snap his spine. That, of course, was the least of the captain's worries, as the blade of the axe was now buried in his guts. The swoop flew along several meters before its engine idled to a stop; it must have had a built in dead-hand switch that told it its rider had suddenly gone missing.

Lynli looked over at Ballador, whose eyes had gone wide with shock; his cousin Jabba simply chuckled at the sight of the Redleg's demise.

Suddenly an explosion rumbled from the direction of the palace. Everyone's heads turned in its direction, even the two beings left standing in the arena, and a hush fell over the crowd. Then a freighter broke through the clouds, screaming down through the atmosphere, its nose glowing hot from a rapid reentry. Lynli's face was split end to end by a wide grin. _Here comes the cavalry_, she thought, elated.

Then she realized the freighter wasn't a Firefly and her smile melted away. A second ship broke the cloud layer, then a third, and a fourth. They fell from the sky at nearly suicidal speeds, tiny pieces of debris flying off as they trailed thick columns of black smoke from their thrusters.

Then they opened fire and all hell broke loose.

###

"All right, we'll be leaving hyperspace in…" Morran leaned over the navicomputer and counted down while he spoke into the shipwide comm. "Three… Two… One…" The kaleidoscoping tunnel of hyperspace collapsed into outstretched lines which in turn shrank into stars. Off in the distance, Nal Hutta appeared as a brownish green disk marring the speckled black backdrop, orbited by its city-covered moon, Nar Shaddaa.

The pilot took hold of the _Cuun'yaim_'s control yoke and maneuvered the ship onto an approach vector for the planet's southern continent. The sensors pinged at him and he spotted a dozen vessels poised above the planet's atmosphere at a staging point. Morran frowned as he looked over the scans.

"What's our ETA to planetfall?" Qate asked, stepping up behind him.

"I'm not so sure we'll get the chance," Morran answered, tapping the sensor display as he kept reading. There was something funny about their drive signatures; they fluctuated erratically, as if they were flying with faulty core containment.

"Hutts' defense fleet?" the Zabrak guessed, leaning over his shoulder and punching up a visual.

It was a mishmash of different ships, a few Action VI transports modified to mount heavy weaponry, Corellian corvettes, a couple of Gozanti cruisers, and one _Carrack_-class light cruiser that sat at the center of the formation like a mother bantha minding her herd. They looked patched in a thousand places, having suffered damage and neglect to the point of barely being recognizable. Dark brown smudges and streaks adorned their hulls in haphazard patterns, as if someone had just taken a paint can and thrown it at the ships. _But that's not paint…_ Morran realized, his guts turning to ice.

His hands flew across the controls as he started plotting an escape vector. "Sorry lady, looks like all flights into Nal Hutta have been canceled!"

"What?"

"We need to get out of here, and fast," he insisted, punching in the coordinates for a jump to lightspeed; he didn't even care where, as long as it was far away from those ships.

"Hold it right there," Qate said and Morran suddenly felt the barrel of a blaster pressed to the base of his skull.

"Spast! Look!" he swore, jabbing his finger at the viewport where the small patchwork fleet hung above the planet slowly growing larger before them. "That's a Bando Gora raiding party!"

"_Shabuir…_" she whispered, but the gun didn't waver. Then she said, "Hold course."

"What?" He didn't care that fear rose his voice an octave or two. "Didn't you hear me say 'Bando Gora?'" She prodded him with the blaster. "Okay, okay."

He pushed the throttle as far forward as it would go. He'd broken blockades before and knew speed was the key, but those had been against rational, sane beings, not the mindless berserkers of the Bando Gora. Who knew how they'd react to this little transport ship barreling toward them out of the black?

Qate took the comm and announced to the rest of the crew, "Doc, Maalku, Aerek, better strap yourselves in while I take the guns. We've got company."

"Guns?" Morran asked, astonished as she settled into the copilot's seat. "We've got gun?" He suddenly felt a little better. Very little.

The raiders must have been concentrating on what was happening on the ground, as they didn't open fire on them until they were within two klicks. Even so, they let loose with everything at their disposal with reckless abandon, firing wildly across their ever-changing vector.

Morran kept a loose hold on the control yoke, diving and rolling away from the incoming fire. The vessel felt like an extension of his own body, responding immediately to his slightest touch. It was as though mind, man, and machine had all become one entity and he flew, flew as he had in the old days. _I'm back_, he thought triumphantly.

The pilot's heart nearly stopped when he saw a pair of missiles streak through the vacuum on trails of blue fire. _Proton torpedoes!_ his mind screamed and he threw the ship into a spiraling corkscrew it never should have been able to perform. He glanced at the sensors, spotting the warheads moving away and breathed a sigh of relief. Then he realized something: his instruments had never warned him of a missile lock. "Did we fire those?" he asked, confused.

"Sure did," Qate answered with a feral grin on her face as she continued to pour fire into the enemy fleet. "Nice job keeping us in one piece, by the way."

They'd blown past the enemy ships in the blink of an eye and made it through the blockade, then angled downward into Nal Hutta's atmosphere. With a cocky grin, Morran reached into his vest and pulled out his cigarette case. Lighting up, he replied, "It's all in the reflexes."

###

In the arena, the crowd screamed. The churning sea of sentients transformed into a meat grinder as they trampled each other to escape the wave of hooded grey figures pouring into their midst, snatching them up and carrying them away or simply killing them on the spot. The Bando Gora cultists were deadly and brutal, and they didn't stop, even when the Hutts' security troops fired into the swarming mass. They simply charged their attackers like crazed berserkers, pummeling them to death with clubs or bare hands.

Forgotten by Gartogg, Buruk watched as one of the security troops was dragged to the ground, firing his blaster sporadically as a group of raiders tore him apart. Then another swarm came pouring out of the open gates on the arena floor. The burly Gamorrean charged into their midst, squealing a mighty war cry and swinging his arg'garok with deadly efficiency. He must have bisected or smashed fifteen of the vicious, once-sentient creatures with the axe before they overwhelmed him. They clamped onto his thick, meaty arms and legs, digging their nails and dirty, broken teeth into his green flesh. Gartogg's brave squeals turned to shrill whines as he died.

Buruk stood transfixed by the horrible display, unable to move; nothing he'd seen on the battlefield could compare with the scenes playing out all around him now. Then he remembered the late Tyrrel's swoop bike idling nearby and ran for it, hopped into the saddle, and gunned the accelerator straight for the grandstands. _Please let this work_, he thought as he poised his thumb over the repulsor field generator switch. _By the _manda_, please let this work._ A split second before he would have smashed into the wall, he jabbed down on the switch, feeding energy into the generator; the bike bounced three meters into the air, its forward momentum carrying it over the wall and into the stands where it crashed down among the hastily vacated seats.

He rode hard up the tiered levels, the swoop bike jostling and shuddering every meter of the way, straight for the luxury box where Lynli was being held. He skidded the bike to a halt and leapt over the low wall into the box where Jabba's entourage were forming a protective screen around him. One of them pointed a blaster at Buruk and ordered, "Halt! Don't come any closer!"

Buruk slapped the gun away and grabbed Lynli by the wrist. "_Lo'shebs'ul narit, di'kut_, I'm not here for him."

"About time," Lynli said, giving his braid a playful tug before she hopped out onto the bike.

Before following her, Buruk turned back to Ballador, the bespectacled, fez-wearing accountant that had dragged them into this mess. The Hutt looked to his cousin as the Mandalorian approached but none of Jabba's protectors moved to stop him. He saw fear in Ballador's eyes as they flicked back and forth between him and Jabba. Glaring down at him, Buruk said, "It's time you and I ended our acquaintance." He turned to Jabba. "If you don't mind, of course."

Jabba chortled and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Do what you will," he rumbled, turning to leave. "Spare me the burden of doing it myself."

"Cousin!" Ballador shrieked as he watched Jabba go, gliding along under his own power, with his armed guards accompanying him. He could afford the best muscle in the galaxy; they wouldn't have a problem getting through the Bando Gora.

Buruk pressed a few buttons on Ballador's hoversled, programming its guidance system, then turned and hopped out to the waiting swoop bike.

As they sped for the nearest exit, Lynli looked back to see Ballador Desilijic Dessh's hoversled smash through the luxury box and go careening down the tiers of seats, crashing to a stop on the ground below. Ballador was thrown from the wreck, his great fatty body rolling languidly over the sand into the crowd of Bando Gora cultists still tearing at Gartogg's corpse. Too fat to move under his own power, the accountant clawed at the dirt desperately, trying to drag himself away from the creatures as they fell upon him.

###

The _Cuun'yaim_ skimmed the treetops as Morran flew toward the column of smoke rising from the Hutt palace that Qate directed him toward. "I hate to tell you, lady, but your friends've got to be dead," he said over his shoulder as they watched the decrepit freighters and transport ships lift off into the sky, returning from their raid with fresh prisoners and slaves to brainwash into joining their ranks. "Bando Gora are savages—hell they ain't even sentient anymore from what I hear. Just mindless killing machines."

"Just keep flying," the woman growled from the cockpit hatchway.

They continued in silence for several more minutes before they spotted a second, smaller column of smoke coming from an open clearing several klicks away from the palace. Morran trained the ship's sensors to get a handle on what this new flare up could be. "Two life forms and something metal, maybe a small vehicle," he said aloud. "Must a signal fire."

"Set her down there!" Qate ordered, suddenly beside him, grabbing the back of the pilot's seat in a death grip.

Morran did as he was told and saw the two figures were a human male with red hair and a female Twi'lek with violet skin standing beside a swoop bike. They'd constructed a bon fire in the middle of the clearing from branches and leaves torn from the surrounding trees. "Your friends, I hope."

"Yep," Qate grinned, running down to the cargo bay. A minute later, she called over the comlink, "They're aboard; get us out of here."

Once they were safely away and traveling back to Tatooine in the confines of hyperspace, Morran unstrapped himself from his seat and wandered down to the hold where he saw the crew engaged in a hug-filled reunion. The boy, Aerek, wouldn't take his arms from around the neck of the man they'd picked up, his face buried in his shoulder, so the man merely hefted him in his arms and carried him about. The pilot allowed himself a half smile as he marched down the stairway.

Then the man looked up.

Morran's brows shot up in surprise. "Kelborn?" he gasped.

The bounty hunter's own expression displayed shock. "Risant," he said carefully, adjusting Aerek's weight in his arms. "Haven't seen you in a while…"

Morran shoved his hands in the pockets of his yellow flightsuit and leaned on the stairway's safety rail, forcing a casual air. "The hunt-saboteur game went south after you trashed my ship," he replied. "How's hunting?"

"Got my license revoked," Kelborn answered. Then, changing the subject he asked, "So, they hired you to come get us?"

"That's right. She's a real dream of a ship, too. Wouldn't mind staying on permanent."

"Finally, someone with some taste," the Twi'lek woman said, crossing her arms. "You'll have to see the engine room sometime."

"Fine, whatever," Kelborn sighed, putting the boy down and turning toward the aft section. "Shower, food, sleep. Then we'll talk about you flying my ship."

###

Nilak sat at the overturned shipping crate that served as his desk, twirling a writing stylus between his fingers. He scowled at the empty office; he'd had to sell most of the décor to make ends meet. No one wanted to deal with him after word that he sold Kelborn and Vairn out to the Hutts. What use was a middleman that didn't protect his contractors? The guards were all gone too. He couldn't afford to pay them anymore so they'd just left. Now the Zabrak was all alone, just him and his old desk.

He sat staring at the datapad before him, at the red numbers of his account balances; with no one working for him or through him, expenses had mounted up. He flicked the stylus in his hand against the desktop, then finally set it down. No use hanging around Mos Eisley anymore. He'd leave Tatooine tonight, before debt collectors came calling. He could always set himself up on another world. It'd be difficult of course, starting from square one, but he'd manage. He got up and started walking toward the corridor.

"Going somewhere, Nilak?" asked a cold, familiar voice filtered through a helmet mike.

The Zabrak stopped in his tracks and swallowed past a lump in his chest. Out of the shadowed corridor leading to the exit stepped a man in a brown poncho, wearing a sand-gold blast helmet with a distinctive T-shaped visor. "Kelborn!" Nilak gasped. "You're alive!"

"No thanks to you," the other man said as he strode forward. "We have business to settle. Accounts to balance." Nilak backed against the shipping crate, plopping down in a sitting position on its surface. "I have a thing about people who betray me." A hand appeared from under the poncho, holding a blaster. It wasn't pointing in a threatening direction but Nilak still stared at it with wide eyes.

"I didn't have a choice," the Zabrak insisted, sweat beading on his horned head. "It wasn't anything personal, Kelborn!"

The blaster was up in the blink of an eye and fire erupted from the barrel. Nilak folded up as his stomach flared with white-hot pain and he fell sideways off the desk. He landed hard on his shoulder and his skull cracked against the office floor. He wanted to black out but adrenaline kept him conscious of his surroundings, as if his own body were punishing him for what he'd done. He gasped for breath as Kelborn stood over him, the murderous look in his eyes obscured by the T-visor. He leveled his weapon at Nilak's head and said, "It was personal to me." He squeezed the trigger.


	28. Rhapsody in Kebiin

Good help was always hard to find and good employers were even more so. Never in his life had Buruk Kelborn felt that fact more acutely than now. After a deal went south and he'd been forced to cut out his usual middleman—with extreme prejudice—he and his crew found themselves in the unenviable position of finding someone new to work for. Fifty percent of Mos Eisley's inhabitants were middlemen or go-betweens of some nature, helping those that needed work to find it, so at first glance it seemed the menagerie populating the _Cuun'yaim_ had their pick. Unfortunately, most of those brokers were connected by various means to the Desilijic kajidic and Buruk wanted to steer clear of them for a while, just in case Jabba the Hutt decided to change his mind about letting the Mandalorian throw his cousin to a pack of ravenous Bando Gora cultists.

So while his Twi'lek partner, Lynli, and the rest of the crew were out and about meeting with potential employers, Buruk stayed behind with Aerek on the ship to interview a potential new crewmate. The boy, whom he'd pulled out of Coruscant's undercity, sat at the dinner table, eying the pilot who sat across from him suspiciously, as Buruk had taught him.

Morran Risant, former hunt-saboteur and royal pain-in-the-_shebs_, slouched in his chair, one arm thrown casually over its back. He wore a faded yellow flightsuit under a battered black vest and a pair of scuffed spacer's boots. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing the tattoos that blanketed both his arms, mementos of his old days in the Republic's Judicial Forces. Despite his casual posture, his face betrayed his hope that the Mandalorian would hire him on as the ship's permanent pilot.

Buruk sat down beside Aerek, placed a cup of steaming hot _shig_ before him with a smile, and looked up at the pilot, letting the warm fatherly expression melt away. "You've got some explaining to do, Risant," he said evenly.

Risant looked genuinely taken aback. "Me?" he asked, leaning forward in his seat.

Buruk nodded. The last time they'd crossed paths, an outburst from Risant had tipped off a group of punks from a swoop gang that called itself the Redlegs to Buruk's presence, forcing him into a shootout. "What do you want with my ship so badly?"

The pilot sat back with a grin. "Well, for starters I'd say you don't deserve a fine vessel like this one. She deserves an owner who'd really appreciate what she can do."

"She keeps me moving and I appreciate it plenty," Buruk replied. "Start convincing me not to kick you out on your _shebs_."

Now Risant sat straight up, all business. "Okay, you want to know why you should hire me? You and your partner, Lynli, you deal with whoever hires you to do a job, right? Well you both saw the risks of that way of operating, since you're the only two on your crew that knows how to fly a starship. Putting your boy through that trauma again should be low on your list of things-to-do."

Buruk opened his mouth to reply but the pilot cut him off. "Now I know what you're thinking; one of you will just stay behind from now on to keep things cozy on the home front. Well, that won't fly, buddy, and here's why. Lynli can't stay behind because she's a lot shrewder than you when it comes to negotiating; you can get by on intimidation but that'll only take you so far and make it a lot harder to retain clients, and the good Doctor Riscan has the gift of gab but you can't really trust a glitbiter to handle your credits." His smile widened. "And _you_ won't stay behind because you need some muscle to back up your partner's sharp dealing. Maalku's too easily distracted by his 'omens' and you can't send Qate because she'll ask for a bigger cut, am I right?"

Buruk frowned. _Haar'chak_, he _was_ right. "Yeah," he answered. "That's about the size of it."

"So I'm the solution to all your problems," Risant said, spreading his hands as if to show himself off. "The two of you can go out and deal with the scary people while I sit comfy-cozy right here, ready to fly to the rescue at the push of a button on that fancy armor you prance about it."

Osik, ni copaani kaysh mirshmure'cye, Buruk thought. He wanted to reach across the table and punch him in the mouth, not because he bore him a grudge for what happened at Cloud City but because he was so _shabla_ right.

###

A Dug hopped up onto the barstool beside Lynli inside the only sports bar in Mos Eisley. It was called Bantha Wild Wings and it catered mostly to podrace, limmie, and smashball fans, with its huge vid displays showing live broadcasts of each sport, depending on the season, and decorations of athletic memorabilia plastered all over the walls. She had to admit, tacky though it was, that the grub was good as she wiped the establishment's signature tangy sauce from violet lips and turned to her companion.

"Rewulga, I presume?" she asked, offering her hand to shake.

The Dug eyed her lasciviously, then clasped her proffered hand with his foot and raised it up to his mouth. She pulled free just before his lips touched her skin an he looked up at her with a sly smile. "A pleasure to meet an exquisite creature such as yourself." His voice was silken and harsh at the same time, like durasteel wool being rubbed together. "You must be Lynli Vairn, of the _Cuun'yaim_." She'd put the word out that they had a cargo salvaged from a derelict Republic cruiser up for sale and one of his cronies had set up a meeting for her.

"That's right," she answered. "I represent Captain Buruk Kelborn." He was, after all, the ship's captain.

"The captain is a very lucky man to have such a beautiful first mate." Rewulga patted her thigh. "He used to be a bounty hunter, yes?"

Lynli quashed a feeling of unease. Illegitimate businessmen like Rewulga usually didn't like dealing with former bounty hunters; they could never be sure their newfound employees wouldn't fall back into their old line of work and turn them in for whatever price might be on their head. "Obviously not a very good one if you consider his present company," she answered.

Rewulga gave a telling nod, signaling he knew about the Black Sun price on her head. "Well, I suppose I can't hold it against him. Good company's so hard to come by." He placed a hand on Lynli's bare shoulder and squeezed gently. "Very well," he said. "I'll purchase your salvaged cargo and pay you to move some more." He leaned in very close now, and whispered, "And I'll pay _you_ to do a whole lot more…" One of his feet rubbed the inside of her thigh, making its way higher toward—

Before he could blink, Lynli smashed the heel of her hand into his snout and left him at the bar, fuming as she passed through the exit. _The nerve!_

###

Qate's brow twitched involuntarily as she stared at the ice cream sundae slowly melting before her eyes. A Kerkoiden infochant had said her contact would be at this address to discuss the details of meeting a Toydarian middleman by the name of Mulokhai. He'd neglected to mention that the particular establishment would be a children's treat shop and the Zabrak woman felt quite out of place among the laughter and innocent faces. They reminded her of Meshurok and she had to fight back an encroaching wave of bittersweet memories. She was here on a job and couldn't afford to get sentimental right now.

The colorful mound of scoops came accompanied with a hand-written note scrawled on a napkin. It looked to have been written either by a child's unpracticed hand or by someone unfamiliar with the aurebesh. It read, "Had to go to the 'fresher," so she sat down and waited while the untouched sundae began to liquefy.

###

Ganhuff laid down his cards and smiled. "Twenty," he declared triumphantly to his opponents. "The hand pot is mine yet again."

As the doctor leaned forward and scooped up his winnings, Maalku leaned over his shoulder and spoke into his ear, vocoder modulated to a low whisper. "We were told to find beings to do business with," he said. "Maalku does not believe this is the sort of business that Tortoise had in mind."

Ganhuff riffled the sabacc deck and dealt cards to the three other players. "This is how I network, Findsman," he replied easily. "People will talk about almost anything at the gaming table if it'll cover their tells."

"Tells?"

"The little things a player does or says that give away the cards he's holding," the doctor explained. "Unconscious movements you can use to tell if they're holding a good hand or a bad hand. To try to cover those tells, players chit-chat with each other."

"I see." The Gand's tone told Ganhuff that he clearly didn't but would trust the doctor's assessment.

To one of his fellow players, a Yarkora, Ganhuff said, "You mentioned a friend interested in selling some product offworld. Can he afford the Hutts' 'handling fees?" He referred to the obscene amount of the stake the slugs took off the top when somebody wanted to move freight.

The yak-faced Yarkora frowned, stroking his chin whiskers, and said, "Unfortunately no, so the cargo's just sitting at the docks."

"Ironic," Ganhuff observed as he placed a card in the interference field. "Coming all the way out to Tatooine to avoid the Republic's taxes and ending up strong-armed by the Hutts. Sounds like he needs an independent operator."

"That would be most advantageous for him," the Yarkora agreed. "Do you… happen to know such an operator?"

"I do," Ganhuff answered. "He was recently forced to dissolve a business arrangement he had so he's looking for someone new to take advantage of his services."

"I'd be very interested in meeting this operator of yours," the Yarkora said.

###

Qate watched the refreshers like a hawkbat. Nobody entered them the entire time she'd been in the treat shop so it came as a surprise when a Toydarian child pushed the door aside, his tiny wings beating furiously. He was small, less than half a meter in height, with teal skin that lightened over his potbelly. He wore a dark brown tunic, a white skullcap, and a fringed scarf that draped over his narrow shoulders. He spotted Qate and a broad smile revealed the beginnings of his tusks as he flew over to her table.

"Hi!" he greeted her happily with a wave. He hovered above the ground at the Zabrak's eyelevel as he introduced himself. "I'm Zashiah!"

"Uh, hi," Qate said, a little uncomfortable that she'd been sent to meet a kid. He couldn't be more than six standard years old.

"Aw, you didn't eat the ice cream I got you," he said with a pout. He turned back to her with a hopeful look in his slightly bulging purple eyes. "Could I have it? Grandpa wouldn't like it if it went to waste."

"That's fine," Qate answered, and the little Toydarian alighted on the chair next to her, gobbling up the half-melted sundae with a joyful look on his face. "Uh, Zashiah… I was told you could help me meet a Toydarian named Mulokhai."

"Yeah, Uncle Dram told Grandpa about you and he wanted to hear what you had to say," Zashiah said, wiping chocolate from his trunk with the back of his hand. "So he had me come and get you." He pitched his voice deeper and added an accent as he said, "Mah bukee, there's a nice Zabrak lady I vant to meet, vaiting at the lickmoomoo shop. Be a good boy and fetch her and you can have a tasty waffmula." He smiled again as he scooped another spoonful of ice cream into his mouth.

###

"Okay, you've convinced me I need another pilot," Buruk admitted, albeit grudgingly. "Now convince me why I should hire _you_."

Risant's grin faded like a kid who'd just been told his akk died and he slumped in his chair. "I have to admit, Kelborn, I took a liking to this ship the moment I saw her. Felt like I was me again, you know, the old me, before I lost my Blastboat and got marooned." He gave Buruk a look that said he still hadn't _entirely_ let that incident go and reached into a vest pocket. Buruk tensed a moment, expecting him to pull a holdout blaster for leaving him stranded in the Iderud Badlands. Instead, he extracted a cigarette, which he clamped between his lips.

Buruk relaxed and asked, "By the way, what's with the hair? You were blond back then."

"Dye job," he answered. "An 'unsatisfied' customer made parole and I had to keep my head down until he turned repeat offender. You mind?" He motioned with his lighter, indicating whether or not he could smoke.

"Not around my boy," the Mandalorian answered. Aerek looked up at him at the reference to being his. "That's strike one against you."

Now the pilot frowned. "Fine." He tucked the cigarette behind one of his repeatedly pierced ears, saving it for later, and changed the subject. "Never figured you'd wind up smuggling, Kelborn. Kind of a big switch from bounty hunting."

"Not that big. I still make acquisitions and hand them over to whoever's paying me for them."

"Still need a ship capable of defending itself," Risant nodded in agreement. "Something your ship is sorely lacking."

"She's armed."

"Please," the pilot replied, making a show of trying not to laugh in Buruk's face. "Two piddley laser cannons oriented straight ahead. Good luck fending off pirates and—" he cleared his throat "—Bando Gora with that. Though I do have to applaud your choice of proton torpedoes over concussion missiles." He kicked his feet up on the table.

Buruk reached out and shoved them off. "Strike two. So I'll beef up the weapons when I can afford it."

"You could afford it now, if you agree to hire me."

"You hiding a pair of quadlasers in that tacky jumper you're wearing?" the Mandalorian scoffed.

"It just so happens that I know a starship tech right here in Mos Eisley," Risant explained. "I was a regular customer back before you grounded me so I can get you a square deal with him. Don't think you can go around me, either, because he doesn't like new faces. His business isn't exactly on the up-and-up and he doesn't trust people he doesn't know."

Buruk sat silently, thinking. It was mostly a long stream of Mando'a invective, directed at Risant and at the late Nilak.

Suddenly his comlink went off; it was Qate. She said she'd hit pay dirt and gave him an address to meet her and the middleman she'd hooked up with.

"Fine," Buruk said to Risant, pocketing the comlink. Holding his hand out to shake, he added, "You're hired."

###

Maalku watched Thernbee rake in another pile of credits, did a quick calculation in his head, and determined that the ship's doctor had amassed over two thousand credits in winnings. The findsman reached into a small bag on his belt, stirring up the colored beads inside as he worried about the attention his friends winning streak had earned them. Selecting a bead, he pulled it free and brought it out into the light to see. It was black.

_Not good_, he thought, twisting his mandibles into an approximation of a frown behind his breath mask. Black was always a bad omen. He turned back to Thernbee to warn him when his foot slipped in a puddle of some recently spilled beverage. He skidded, lost his balance, and stumbled into the back of a large, rough-looking human.

"Hey!" he shouted, turning to face Maalku. His tunic was soaked and drops of liquid dripped from his face. It seemed the Gand had caused him to spill his drink. "You gonna apologize for that, Bug-Face?" He lunged to grab Maalku by the collar of his robe but the findsman stepped aside, placed the shaft of his shockprod between the man's ankles, and twisted. The man stumbled forward and struck Thernbee from behind, sprawling him across the table.

"What's that?" someone at the table demanded, reaching for a small card-shaped object that had fallen out of the doctor's sleeve. Examining it, he eyed Thernbee and snarled, "It's a skifter! You've been cheating this whole time!"

"Well gentlemen, it's been a gas," Thernbee chuckled uneasily as he stood and backed away from the table. "Good day."

With that, he grabbed Maalku by the sleeve and ran for the door.

###

Zashiah led Qate to a small jewelry shop on Straight Street where he paused and pointed to the entrance. "Grandpa's office is in the back. I'm not allowed in there but he let's me play out front with Uncle Dram."

"Okay," Qate nodded, remembering the Kerkoiden infochant and having a hard time picturing him playing with the little Toydarian. "I just have to wait for my friend to get here.

"Okay."

After a few minutes, Buruk arrived in his armor, Aerek in tow. "Settle things with Morran?" she asked as he approached.

"We now have another mouth to feed," he confirmed. Looking over at Zashiah, he asked, "Who's the little one?"

"Hello. I'm Zashiah." The Toydarian brought himself up to Buruk's eyelevel and gave a polite little bow as he hovered.

"Hello Zashiah," Buruk smiled. "I'd like you to Aerek."

Aerek gave a little wave. "Hi."

"Aerek, would you mind keeping Zahiah company while Buruk and I go talk to his _ba'buir_?" Qate asked.

The boy nodded and the Zabrak followed her comrade into the shop.

At the back the found Dram, the Kerkoiden, leaning against the wall beside an empty corridor. "End of the hall," he grunted in thickly accented Basic and followed them to the door at the other end.

In the rear office, they found an elderly Toydarian the same color as Zashiah hovering next to a hotplate and pouring himself a cup of dianogan tea. He was wrinkled with age, with liver spots speckling his trunk and forearms, and wore a white skullcap like his grandson's.

"Mulokhai?" Buruk asked.

The Toydarian turned in their direction and cupped one hand to the right side of his head. "Eh?" A small bud-like device sat in his aural canal, connected by a wire to a square bulge in one of the chest pocket of his black vest. "You'll haf to shpeak up, mah bukee. I'm no shpring nuna anymore."

"Mulokhai?" Buruk asked again, a little louder.

"Yah, that's me," the Toydarian answered, lowering his hand and giving the fringed scarf draped over his narrow, hunched shoulders a tug. "Zashiah's such a precocious leettle bukee, isn't he?" he asked with a chuckle. "Eh, Buruk Kelborn is vhich?"

On cue, Buruk stepped forward. "I'm Kelborn. We understand you're interested in doing business with us. We have a _Firefly_-class transport that can haul just about any cargo you can name."

"This is good," Mulokhai replied, winging his way over to his desk, an antique made of genuine wood, possibly wroshyr. He took a sip of his tea; some of it dribbled down the corners of his mouth into his bushy grey beard. Setting the cup down, he fixed them with a sharp violet stare and said, "I've heard you used to vork through the Zabrak Neelak unteel some unpleasantness caused you to dissolve that arrangement."

"Nilak sold me out to a Hutt," Buruk replied defensively. "Then he learned the hard way I don't take kindly to traitors."

The Toydarian actually threw his head back and laughed, giving them a good look at his black-stained teeth. "Very good, Captain Kelborn, very good. Neelak should not have double-crossed you; that's the golden rule in business. 'You're only as good as your employees.' I think ve can do business, you and I."

"That's all well and good, Mulokhai, but I need something a little more detailed that that."

"Ha!" Mulokhai barked, shaking a finger at Buruk like he was pretending to scold his favorite grandchild. "Very, very good, Captain. Vell, first I propose to buy the cargo currently feelling your hold. Neelak vould haf paid you twenty thousand, but as it's secondhand, I offer you sixteen."

"Eighteen," Qate snapped. No way was she going to let this little miser stiff them.

Buruk held up a hand to silence her. He must have been desperate. "Keep talking," he told the Toydarian.

Mulokhai's violet gaze darted between them and she could see the gears spinning behind those eyes. Genial and geriatric though he was, he was still a Toydarian, and they were all con artists and _chakaare_ to some degree. "I haf a friend who vants to sell some of his property offvorld but can't afford the Hutts' protection money," he continued. "It vill be loaded onto your sheep before dawn and you vill be paid tventy thousand to take it the market on Manaan."

Buruk crossed his arms over his armored chest. "And another five to refuel in Ahto City," he said.

"Deal."

"One condition," he added, holding up his index finger. "We work steady for you like this, there's one cargo we'll never touch. Slaves."

The Toydarian considered, scratching at his beard, then turned back to Buruk and said, "All right, no slaves." He then flew over beside Buruk and smiled, slapping him the back. "I like you, mah bukee. You've got moxy."

###

Lynli found Buruk sitting on the catwalk, overlooking the _Cuun'yaim's_' hold just as he had when he first named the ship. He'd removed his armor and was now dressed in his normal civvies, swinging his legs out over their cargo. Sitting down next to him, she asked, "Glad to be back on the move?"

"I am," he replied cheerfully.

"You still owe me dinner and dancing," she told him, leaning herself against his shoulder then sitting back up playfully.

He rolled with her weight easily. "Well, it helps to be able to pay for it," he replied. "We can stop in Ahto. They have some nice tatsushi places."

He paused for a moment, then said, "From there we should be able to make it to the Sepan system… One of my targets is there on a diplomatic mission."

Lynli frowned. "You're going to make Aerek worry about you again so soon?"

"Just a quick stop," he assured her. "In and out, won't even need to meet him face to face."

"So it's an assassination then." She didn't know which she liked less: the idea of Buruk putting himself at risk by fighting a Jedi to the death, or the idea of Buruk killing a Jedi in cold blood.

"Assuming we even get paid once we make it to Ahto," he added with a laugh. "I can't imagine who'd pay for these." He waved a hand out over the hold, indicating the herd of banthas that Mulokhai's people had packed in shoulder to shoulder. "You can find them just about anywhere."

A shudder ran through the hull as the _Cuun'yaim_ hurtled forward into hyperspace, eliciting a series of irritated lows from the bantha herd. "Hope you like seafood, travelers," Morran crowed over the comm, "because we are on our way to Manaan."

"We're paying for this guy?" Lynli asked skeptically.


	29. Hotel Coruscanta

Nurt Ulasac sat alone in his chamber aboard the consular ship as it hurtled through the chaotic vortex of hyperspace. He'd dimmed the lights, veiling the room in darkness to shut out the few distractions in his sparsely furnished quarters, and meditated. The Twi'lek Jedi Master was on his way back to Coruscant from his homeworld, Ryloth, where he and Kit-Sun Wolfgana had investigated the sudden disappearance of a fellow Jedi, Shoaneb Zaruul.

The Miraluka woman had been sent to convince the Twi'lek Clan Council to enforce the Republic's antislavery laws more strongly. Her remains had been found in the Bright Lands, nothing but bones and a lightsaber, after a heat storm had burned away her clothing and her flesh. With Kit-Sun's help, Ulasac questioned first the Council, then their aides and associates, then local residents of Lessu who had last seen her. From there, they moved on to the seedier elements of the capital, trying to determine if the underground slave traders had had a hand in her death. After a little Force-assisted persuasion from Kit-Sun, an infochant revealed that a man in Mandalorian armor had been asking questions about her. There was no doubt in the Jedi Master's mind that this Mandalorian had killed her.

There was no doubt, because Shoaneb had been a survivor of Galidraan.

Just as his late apprentice, Jomel Tunray, had been.

Once the investigation had been concluded—or rather taken as far as the Jedi Council would allow him to pursue it—Ulasac was assigned to conclude the negotiations Shoaneb had begun. It took weeks for him and Kit-Sun to repair the damage done by her disappearance but eventually they secured a compromise to the Republic's liking and were recalled to the galactic capital.

The Force told Ulasac there was more to these events than mere coincidence. He had to fight the urge to leap into action; Kit-Sun, ten years his junior, would have advised patience. He tried to concentrate on the living Force around him, seeking its comfort and guidance. Jomel had been like a son to him, and Shoaneb a sister; vengeance was not the Jedi way but he wanted so badly to seek out their killer and bring him to a lasting, final justice.

"Your thoughts betray you, Master Ulasac," said a mild voice from the door. The Twi'lek opened his eyes and saw Kit-Sun silhouetted in the open frame. He smiled, wrinkling the red, upside-down triangles tattooed to his cheeks which declared which Kiffar clan he belonged to. "I could feel your distress as I was passing by."

Ulasac returned his friend's smile. Though only a knight, Kit-Sun was wise and thoughtful, a scholar more than a warrior. _Very much the opposite to my mastery of the blade,_ Ulasac thought. No doubt that that was the reason the two had been paired together by the Council.

"Just thinking over the events of the past few months," he said aloud.

"Brooding, you mean," the younger man said, his smile never faltering as he stepped into the room and sat down before the Master. "It isn't good, you know. It's like filling your heart with acid and letting it eat away at you from within."

"It's hardly your place to tell me that," Ulasac said with a sigh.

"Quite so. Would you like to talk about it instead?"

The Twi'lek couldn't help an amused snort. That was Kit-Sun, always so open to others. "Very well. Shoaneb's killer; it was almost certainly the Mandalorian."

"I agree," the younger Jedi replied, his face turning serious now. "I could feel him on the blaster rifle we found in the Bright Lands near the murder scene but I couldn't get a sense of his identity or even his motives."

"I have a theory about that," Ulasac said darkly.

"I know."

"The bounty hunters on Corellia," the Master continued, "were the same people I chased from the Temple archives. The man spoke a few words of Mandalorian then."

Kit-Sun added, "And wore Mandalorian armor the next time you met him. We should report this to the Jedi Council."

Ulasac hesitated. "We should gather more information first," he said cautiously. Master Windu had ordered him not to take part in the investigation of the Temple's infiltration but he couldn't let it go. Mandalorians had invaded the sanctity of their home, stole information on the whereabouts of the survivors of Galidraan, and were likely carrying out a campaign of revenge killings for the justice they'd received there. Such acts could not go unpunished. "So we can give the Council a more complete report," he assured.

Kit-Sun stroked his red beard, considering. While tradition dictated that he should defer to the Master's wisdom, the knight was not bound to obey him as a Padawan would have been. If he wished, he could go to the Council and tell them that Ulasac intended to disobey their orders. With but a call on the comm, he could have ended things as soon as their vessel exited hyperspace.

Instead, he hid his arms within the sleeves of his cloak and, with a nod of his head, said, "Very well, Master. The more information we can give the Council, the better."

###

Kit-Sun marveled at the amount of information Jedi Masters were allowed access to in the Temple archives. They'd used Ulasac's login ID for just that reason but it still amazed the knight, whose own access was severely limited by comparison. _And I thought I was being deprived as a Padawan_, he thought.

Still, he had to tread carefully. Master Ulasac had been forbidden from investigating the intrusion, so locating the files they sought had to appear—to the network watchdogs, at least—purely incidental.

Kit-Sun supported the Council's wisdom on the matter. His friend had been embittered by the number of Jedi that had been lost at Galidraan, and Master Dooku's resignation shortly thereafter had only made it worse. He'd fallen into a brooding state, fueling his anger by poring over history texts on the Old Sith Wars, in which the Mandalorians had often played an adversarial role against the Jedi and the Republic. It had been for his own good that Master Windu ordered him off the investigation.

_So why am I helping him now?_ That was simple. Kit-Sun had been paired with Ulasac to act as a buffer against the darkness festering within him. He could help his friend cleave to the light far better by staying at his side.

"What is it you're looking for?" Master Ulasac asked over his shoulder.

Kit-Sun glanced back at the Twi'lek and answered, "Parking records for the Temple Hangars over the past six months."

"That's an awfully long way back."

"On the premise that I'm looking to establish some sort of trend for a survey," the knight replied with a sly grin. "Which is technically true." He punched up several dialog boxes showing lists of registration numbers and which parking space they occupied. "One of these things doesn't belong." Tapping a few keys, he ran a command to cross-reference the hangars' occupants. Only one had never parked there before.

"I think this is the one we want, Master. It's registered to Corsati Selsyn and Aralin Okunn." Kit-Sun opened a new dialogue box, a list of names; the Order's roster of Jedi Masters, knights, and Padawans. Neither name appeared on the list.

"So we know this is how they got in," Ulasac said, patting Kit-Sun on the shoulder. "Good work. Can you access the speeder's flight recorder?"

"Of course," Kit-Sun replied and opened several new dialogue boxes, accessing several speeder's recorders to cover the one he truly wanted. "It stopped at the Outlander Club on Vos Gesal Street before arriving at the Temple."

"Then we know where to go next," the Jedi Master said with a triumphant, sharp-toothed smile.

###

Kit-Sun flew the speeder through the glittering durasteel canyons of Coruscant by night while Ulasac sat back in the passenger seat, taking in sights he'd not seen in months. Traffic was heavy; it was the evening rush, beings getting off work and going home to their families or leaving home to go to work on the night shift. Commuters choked the civilian sky lanes.

Speeders were less common in the lower levels, however. The poorer sentients traveled on foot while those who could afford air travel kept well above the sky bridges and glidewalks. As they sped by, lights and signs and holograms blurred together into a stream of colors that reminded Ulasac of the flash of lightsabers. The Twi'lek closed his eyes and let himself be swept back in time.

###

One and a half years ago; Galidraan

_Ulasac stood with his hands hidden within the voluminous sleeves of his cloak as he watched Dooku bow respectfully before the governor's holo image. The elderly man looked frantic in his thick robes and purple, fur-lined cape, his eyes pleading. "Thank the Force you've come, Master Jedi," the governor said, his voice full of relief. He wrung his hands together nervously, as though trying to keep them warm. "I feared you would not make it before they attacked again."_

_"Do not fear, Governor," Dooku assured him with far more regal bearing than the man he addressed. "I have gathered twenty of the Order's finest to turn back the Mandalorian raiders."_

_Ulasac wrinkled his nose at the senior Jedi's words; the Order's _finest_ were back on Coruscant, sitting on the Council. In truth, Dooku had gathered whatever Jedi were present in the sector, pulling them from their own important missions at the Council's order, and he and his own Padawan were included in that number. Ulasac and his apprentice had been on Felucia, teaching the natives how to use their affinity for the Living Force to cultivate crops, when he'd received Dooku's call._

_"I only hope they're up to the task," the governor continued. "These brigands are ruthless. They've even been murdering women and children!"_

_The Twi'lek's head snapped up at that._ Women and children?_ he thought._ Monsters!_ He'd thought the Mandalorians had calmed down and joined galactic society almost seven centuries ago, but it seemed a few holdouts still clung to their self-destructive ways, following any warlord promising them conquest and riches._

_"Master? Are you all right?" Jomel, standing to Ulasac's right, must have picked up on his master's momentary flash of anger. Theirs was a strong bond._

_"Women and children, Jomel," he said ruefully to his Padawan._

_That seemed to be enough for the young human; he knew the histories of the Jedi Order. He'd read plenty of the Mandalorians' past atrocities in service to the long vanished Sith. Few beings were so depraved, however, as to slaughter innocent noncombatants as the governor claimed._

_"We'll bring them to justice, Master," Jomel assured him. The boy knew his master well; Ulasac had to smile for that._

_They'd been training Felucian farmers for months, hardly idle, but still the Twi'lek had chafed at the duty. He'd dedicated his life to mastering the art of the blade, much like his distant relative, Anoon Bondara. He'd craved action, a chance to right wrongs as Jedi should, and now it awaited him, garbed in the armor of an outdated warrior tradition that promoted anarchy and conflict. It was unlikely the prideful Mandalorians would go quietly._

_The five consular ships set down a quarter kilometer from the coordinates the governor had given them, claiming it was the location of the Mandalorians' camp, and disgorged their Jedi passengers. Ulasac's lekku twitched in anticipation of the fight to come as the crisp winter air washed over him. The forest was calm, wholly inappropriate for imminent bloodshed._

_The mass of Jedi broke into a run, calling on the Force to lend them speed. Dooku led the way, weaving between clusters of evergreens and conifers as he consulted a datapad to verified their position. As they approached a clearing, he drew his lightsaber and the others followed suit._

_In the distance, someone shouted, "_O'r'olaror!_"_

_Then the Jedi broke through the tree line and found themselves standing atop a ridge, looking down into a camp where green-armored figures stood still as statues, looking to another man on his hands and knees on the other side of the camp. His armor was different from theirs; he'd painted it black and red, possibly as a sign that he was the chieftain among the barbarian horde._

_Dooku ignited his lightsaber, followed by his apprentice, then the others. His gaunt face set in a mask of neutrality, he addressed the warriors. "Mandalorians, I am Master Dooku!" Several helmeted faces turned in their direction, fixing their T-visors on the glowing blades in the Jedi's hands. Even with their faces obscured, they appeared wary. "You stand accused of murder. Surrender now and we will ensure that you are treated fairly."_

_Some of the Mandalorians turned to each other, their helmets bobbing silently as they spoke over built-in comlinks. Ulasac felt their confusion ripple through them._

_Then Dooku's apprentice, Komari Vosa, interjected, "But fight us, and we will bring swift justice!" It was exactly what Ulasac had been thinking._

_That galvanized the warriors into action. Their leader slid down the short ridge into the camp while they took up defensive positions, shouldering rifles and flipping guards off their sights. "_Mando'ade, ke tra'cyar mav!_" the black-armored man ordered._

_A hail of blasterfire poured out at them, sheets of deadly crimson energy that reminded Ulasac of the Sith's fabled "bloodshine" blades, lightsabers powered by synthetic red crystals that had been imbued with the dark side. "_6en u'duumi val gebi!_" their chief yelled, wielding a blaster pistol in each hand like a gunfighter straight out of Wild Space._

_Ulasac and his fellows batted the needles of energy away effortlessly. Blaster bolts that had been meant for Jedi struck Mandalorians, pitching them over backward or crumpling them into heaps in the snow. Others struck duraplast crates or the surrounding banks, vaporizing snow in an instant, filling the air with superheated steam and the smell of ozone._

_After several of his comrades fell, screaming, the Mandalorian chieftain waved to his men, shouting, "_6en u'tra'cyar! 6en u'tra'cyar!_" Slowly, the fire petered out as the warriors obeyed what must have been an order to cease fire. Their leader then gestured at the waiting Jedi, fingers splayed, and ordered, "_6en u'juri tracy'uure! Be'senaare bal goorese!_"_

_Rockets shrieked across the clearing, exploding in the Jedi's midst and kicking up dirt and debris. Dooku never spoke an order; his will was carried through the Force to the rest of them. They scattered to minimize potential casualties as grenades joined the attack. Ulasac saw one human hurled through the air, his cloak aflame. Others managed to throw up their hands, pushing the deadly projectiles off course with the help of the Force. _The Force is our ally_, he thought. _Our sword and shield.

_Fires broke out in the forest at their backs where the errant missiles struck, filling the air with smoke and ash. With the way cut off behind them, the Jedi charged down into the Mandalorian camp, getting inside their range. But the warriors had other tricks up their sleeves; flamethrowers licked at them deadly tongues and hidden blades plunged into the flesh of the unwary. Several warriors took to the air, riding plumes of exhaust from their jetpacks as they fired down into the fray. Explosions continued to rock the camp as the battle raged on all sides now. There were so many, and they were well trained and disciplined. Opponents worthy of his skill, he had to give them that._

_Ulasac slashed a Mandalorian's chest open from shoulder to hip, then pushed him away with the Force and spun, decapitating another. Through the Force he felt his Padawan, still alive, gripped with fear as he fought to stay that way. The master dodged a screaming missile and sent soothing thoughts at him, calming him in the face of the enemy, even as he cut the legs from beneath another, dropping him to his back. Standing over the wounded Mandalorian, he plunged his blade through his chest plate._

_The chieftain fought like a man possessed, with nothing but his bare hands and the occasional rock retrieved from the ground, beating Jedi to death in hand-to-hand combat. It was a sickening sight to behold. How were sentient beings capable of such brutality?_

_Ulasac saw another Mandalorian engulf a pair of Jedi in flame from his gauntlet, then drive a vibrodagger into another Jedi's side, twisting the blade as he withdrew it. As the warrior turned, Ulasac leapt forward and struck, slashing his lightsaber in a downward arc that cut clean through the man's helmet. The Mandalorian lurched backward, the cleft in his T-visor still glowing red hot as he went down. Ulasac stood over him, gazing dispassionately into the slit and felt his life force ebbing. He moved on to deal with those still capable of putting up a fight._

###

Ulasac's eyes snapped open as he returned to the present, sitting bolt upright in his seat. _The Mandalorian bounty hunter!_ he thought, putting things he'd almost forgotten together. _He had a scar on the right side of his face, a scar that could only have come from a lightsaber! He was at Galidraan!_

The Jedi had never thought it possible another Mandalorian could have lived. Somehow he'd survived the battle; somehow the Jedi hadn't noticed him clinging to life before they left, content with turning the dishonored chieftain into the governor's custody. So near death, only the sinister will of the dark side of the Force could have sustained the fallen warrior and that thought terrified Ulasac.

The Jedi Master grabbed Kit-Sun's sleeve. Surprised, the younger man jerked on the steering yoke, swerving into the next traffic lane as other vehicles honked in protest. "Turn around," he said, his voice a hoarse rasp.

"Master?" the Kiffar asked, puzzled. He struggled to correct his steering, waving apologetically to passing speeders as their occupants threw obscene gestures his way.

"Take us back to the Jedi Temple," Ulasac insisted, slipping his hands into the folds of his sleeves.. His heart thudded in his chest.

"What about the Outlander Club?"

"That won't be necessary. The Force gave me the confirmation I needed. It is imperative I warn the others."

Even as he complied, turning the speeder back toward the Temple, Kit-Sun asked, "Others?"

"The other survivors," the Twi'lek hissed, as though the knight should have known exactly who he'd meant. There was precious little time. The Mandalorian could have struck again already, a dark inhuman scourge fueled by hate to bring war on the Jedi Order. He had a nightmare vision of the Temple in flames, burning beneath the feet of an army of Mandalorian men.

"Dooku, Zabth, Tarant, and Kralo. He's after them; he wants to finish the Battle of Galidraan."

###

###

Attention readers! I am currently holding a contest to run from now until October 16. The winner will get to have a character of their own creation written into an upcoming session of Gra'tua Bounty Hunter Kandosii! See my journal at http://cuun-yaim(dot)deviantart(dot)com/journal/ for details!


	30. Living on the Edge

Until a year ago, Marcus Kralo knew almost nothing of the Sepan system. The first time he'd heard mention of it at all had been years ago, at the tail end of a HoloNet News update, and he'd been a Padawan preoccupied with his lightsaber training; he hadn't paid the report any heed. Later he asked his master about it and learned of the civil war that had ravaged its inhabitants for decades. From that day forward, he felt a far more personal connection to those people caught up in the conflict.

Marcus was an offshoot of the Arkanian species, a specialized mutant breed created thousands of years ago after countless genetic experiments by his baseline "cousins." Like all Offshoots, he had pure white skin that matched his hair and each of his hands ended in five clawless, human fingers. On top of those anomalies, his ears were slightly pointed and his eyes possessed pupils and irises, steel grey in color, rather than the pale white orbs of a Pureblood. They'd been created for a singular purpose, to labor as miners for the Arkanian corporate elite, despite their frail constitutions and truncated lifespans.

After years of marginalization by their pureblooded masters, the Offshoots finally rose above their station, reaching something not quite, but very close to, equality. Arkanian society saw Offshoot businessmen and scientists working alongside the baseline members who'd created them, but no one could forget that they were a living example of their own species' corporate greed.

After thousands of years of continued genetic tampering on others by the Purebloods, the Offshoots could remain quiet no more and rebelled against the Dominion government. The renegades' coup failed and the two factions fought bitterly over control of their world. When it appeared the Offshoot's blitzkrieging cyborg army would route the Purebloods, the Dominion appealed to the Republic for intervention. They sent the Jedi and the revolution was quickly dispatched. Many Offshoots fled Arkania for the Outer Rim to found their own independent colonies; the Dominion rounded up all those that stayed behind—men, women, and children—and executed them for treason.

Except one.

Marcus Kralo had been an infant when all that happened, seventeen years ago, and the Jedi that came to Arkania noticed another genetic abnormality about him; an overabundance of midi-chlorians in his blood, connecting him to the Force. He left for the Jedi Temple on Coruscant the same day his parents were sentenced to death. With that kind of background, how could he help but feel empathy for the Sepans?

As a neutral third party, the Republic decided to send a delegation to negotiate a cease-fire between the warring worlds of Ripoblus and Dimok. Marcus jumped at the chance to be a part of the Jedi Order's contribution to the peace talks and began studying every scrap of information on the two factions and the war itself. The Republic Senate was a bureaucratic storehouse of trivia; nothing was beneath his notice. Histories, census reports, economic reviews, geographic surveys; his mind devoured them all with gusto. In six months he'd learned all he could of the rift he hoped to heal; he was as ready as he'd ever be.

Then his flight got diverted.

Master Dooku needed every Jedi he could get to aide the beleaguered world of Galidraan. Reluctantly, Marcus put the wellbeing of the Sepans on hold for the wellbeing of the Galidraanians and another, less well-informed Jedi took his place. The peace talks fell apart almost before they even began. Marcus could only watch in frustration over the HoloNet as the Ripoblus and Dimok grew even further apart, and the fighting resumed.

###

_Ignorance_, Marcus thought as he looked upon the war-shattered landscape of Ripoblus' southern continent on the holoprojector. It was the site of the Dimok's last attack before they'd agreed to convene to discuss an armistice, a nuclear wasteland of scorched earth and ashen clouds. _That's what doomed the other delegation; ignorance._ Though the Jedi Code claimed there was none, he certainly saw plenty of it in his predecessors' actions and it was something he couldn't abide; Offshoots weren't _that_ far-removed from Arkanian Purebloods.

Either the Republic's lead representative, or the Jedi in charge of the mission, or even the consular ship's pilot, had failed to consider the importance of choosing an appropriate landing site to make first contact. They'd set down on Ripoblus and approached the head of state to extend the Republic's invitation to attend peace talks. The Dimok had seen this as favoritism, giving the Republic the cold shoulder from the start and indeed even sabotaging the armistice. When the delegates fled, hostilities flared up, more devastating than ever.

Marcus hadn't made the same mistake. Instead, he set his Delta-6 starfighter down on the neutral world of Sepan VIII and sent his invitations to both faction's representatives simultaneously via hologram. Just getting them on the same channel had been a victory in and of itself; the two rulers were obviously bitter rivals. After months of bargaining by way of hologram, the two sides agreed to terms of a temporary ceasefire, setting up a demilitarized zone between their worlds for the duration.

He looked over the meeting area now, with hands on his hips, and felt a thrill run through his body, like an electron running up and down a current on a fiber optic cable. He closed his eyes and called on the Force to calm him for the negotiations to come. _There is no passion, there is serenity._ When he opened them again, he felt lighter, at ease, and took in the scenery with a refreshed perspective.

The Republic delegation had rented a mountaintop villa in the southern hemisphere, both as a means of personal billeting and for a location to conduct the peace talks on neutral soil. It had taken nearly another month of pre-negotiations with minor subcommittee heads to approve the décor before the talks themselves would be allowed to begin.

A large, elegant wooden table dominated the dining room with place settings and a gold-filigreed nametag at each seat. They were arranged so that the parliamentary representatives of both factions would be forced to mix amongst each other—Marcus had come up with that idea—even while their heads of state sat at opposite ends of the table. Large floor-to-ceiling windows lined the west wall, allowing for a spectacular view of the sunset over the snowcapped mountains when it came, and a crystal chandelier floated on repulsorlifts high above the center of the room. The whole scene spoke of old-world finery, which, the Jedi hoped, would encourage civility among the representatives.

Marcus spun on his heel and strode to where his droid assistant stood next to the tall, wood-carved double doors that opened into the villa's front hall. "Have the guests begun arriving, DeeJay?"

The Republic-red protocol droid, DJ-78, held up his hand and cocked his head to one side, as if listening to a comlink bud in his ear. After a moment, he lowered his hand and faced the Jedi head-on. "Yes sir; I've just received word that Ripoblus and Dimok diplomatic vessels have arrived in orbit and that Prime Ministers Nexant and Kresiri will be shuttling down presently." The droid then lowered its vocabulator's volume, affecting a conspiratorial whisper. "I suspect that each wants to be the first to arrive, to attempt to cause the other to lose face."

"I wouldn't doubt it, DeeJay," Marcus replied, straightening his robes and plucking away intrusive bits of hair or lint that may have somehow clung to him. "See to the kitchen staff while I get the Senate's ambassadors in place; we wouldn't want the delegates getting hungry, would we?"

"No sir." Marcus thought he detected a hint of irritation in the droid's tone as he shuffled off to carry out his order.

Heading upstairs, the Jedi knight knocked on the door of each of the ambassador's quarters in turn. "It's show time," he called, keeping his voice pleasant. Next to ignorance, tardiness was the thing he could abide least, especially from a diplomat. No doubt they were ensuring their own official garb looked immaculate, having their own service droids preen them before they swept into the meeting with regal aplomb.

Turning back down the hall, Marcus stopped at the head of the stairs and clapped his hands once for attention. "Let's look smart, everyone." With that, he quickly shuffled down the burgundy-carpeted steps to the front hall, reaching the bottom in time to greet the first group of arrivals.

"It is an honor to receive you," he said cordially, inclining his head to each of the Dimok's parliamentary representatives. As they entered, they turned their backs to the droids standing on either side of the front door, allowing them to take their warm, fur-lined cloaks, and then walked deeper into the house to survey its grandeur.

The last of the Dimok to enter was Prime Minister Lusuff Kresiri, the portly, triple-chinned representative of Viceroy Berross. Marcus bowed deeply to him as Kresiri shrugged off his cloak and said, "The Republic gives its most sincere thanks to the Viceroy for allowing these talks to continue, Prime Minister."

"Has that Ripoblus swine arrived yet?" Kresiri asked, waving his hand dismissively. "I would hope he wouldn't be foolish enough to attack our members of parliament with a Republic delegation here."

"He's on his way," Marcus assured him, straightening. "In the meantime, help yourselves to some hors d'oeuvres. You'll find your seats labeled when the time comes."

As the rotund man passed, he looked across the front hall to the kitchen door where DeeJay stood waiting. Upon catching Marcus' attention, the droid held up his hand and touched his thumb and index finger together, a sign that everything was proceeding as expected.

Nodding approval, the Jedi turned in time to receive the Ripoblus contingent. Their arrival followed much the same pattern as the Dimok's, followed by another corpulent individual. "Prime Minister Pakef Nexant, welcome," Marcus greeted with another deep bow. "The Republic is happy Viceroy Okin agreed to reopen peace talks."

"I saw the Dimok shuttle on the landing pad," Nexant said, sounding out of breath. "Tell me Kresiri hasn't filled your head with too many slanderous lies yet."

Marcus smiled easily and directed Nexant toward the dining room. "None, Prime Minister. Please join your representatives; the Republic delegates will be down shortly."

###

"Awfully big battlewagons for a peace negotiation," Morran Risant commented dryly, at the helm of the _Firefly_-class transport _Cuun'yaim_. The vessel sat nestled in a crevasse on Sepan VIII's nearest moon, watching the delegations arrive from the Ripoblus and the Dimok. "Who here thinks this is a bad idea? Show of hands?" He raised his into the air with a smile.

Buruk frowned at him and crossed his arms over his chest. "Doesn't matter how big they are," he said matter-of-factly. "They're under a flag of truce and they're obliged to keep to that as long as the Republic's here getting in the way."

"You mean shining the light of peace and civilization?" Ganhuff asked skeptically. He had no room to talk; he was a wanted man in the Republic.

"I meant _my_ way," the Mandalorian replied, turning toward the hatch. "How long until Sepan Eight shields us?" he called back to the pilot.

"Thirty minutes," Risant's voice answered over the ship-wide comm, too loud and overpowering; he must have pressed the mike right up against his mouth. Buruk hated when he did that.

"And the hyperdrive ring?"

"Ninety minute orbital period," Risant answered at a more agreeable volume. "You'll have a thirty minute window in ten."

That cut things too short; he'd have to wait for it to come around again. "Copy."

Buruk popped his head into the galley where Maalku, the Gand findsman, gathered a plate of plain, soft nutrition cubes to take back to his ammonia-saturated quarters. "Any last minute prophesies, Findsman?" he asked.

"Only that thousands will suffer tomorrow if you succeed today," the insectoid replied evenly.

"No one on the ship, right?"

"No."

"And nothing bad's going to happen to _me_?"

"Only to your conscience, Tortoise, if it exists."

"Good." With that, he ducked back into the hall and trotted down the stairway to the cargo bay's upper catwalks. He met Lynli on his way down to the lower deck; they said nothing to each other, just locked eyes as they passed. No one aboard approved of his vendetta against the Jedi. _Well, they don't have to_, he thought. _They just have to stay out of my way._

Thirty minutes until the moon entered Sepan VIII's shadow, creating a massive blind spot in the orbiting vessels' sensor grids that would allow Buruk to ferry down to the planet's surface in one of the _Cuun'yaim_'s escape shuttles. He already had the shuttle prepped and loaded with everything he'd need and he'd donned his Mandalorian armor before they exited hyperspace. Now it was just a matter of passing time.

He spent it in the aft common room, playing starships with Aerek.

###

"Viceroy Berross has made it clear to me that there can be no peace until Ripoblus forces withdraw from our ore mining facilities on their moon," Kresiri declared.

Nexant leapt to his feet, as if he would actually crawl down the length of the table and strangle his opposite number. "Those mines are on Ripoblus' sovereign territory; they belong to us so we took them back!"

Kresiri jabbed a thick finger at the red-faced Ripoblus representative. "You thought that moon was worthless, a barren rock, so your viceroy leased the land to us. It wasn't until the miners struck pay dirt that you changed your minds! The law is on our side."

"Until the lease ran out and you still refused to withdraw your presence from our territory!" Nexant countered. "We had no choice but to remove your miners by force! It was you who started this war by launching reprisals against our world!"

"Your military attacked a civilian mining outpost and we retaliated against legal military targets!"

"Power plants and civilian-run factories!" Nexant nearly shrieked.

"Producing military assets!" Kresiri shouted back.

Marcus listened to the exchange in silence, drumming his five, abnormal fingers on the table. The prime ministers had been slinging accusations and counteraccusations for hours now, neither man willing to give ground as they waved documents at each other to backup their claims. _Are they trying to appall us by recounting the escalation of this war?_ he wondered.

Behind him, DeeJay stood erect, awaiting his commands. "Organic windbags," he muttered disdainfully, vocoder modulated so low that only the Jedi could hear him.

Marcus couldn't help but agree. _They sound like younglings who don't want to play in the same sandbox._

"Gentlemen, please," the Jedi finally interjected, raising his hands placatingly. When the two representatives quieted and sat back down, he continued. "Clearly the mines' production value is of great importance to your economies. Would it be acceptable for Ripoblus to allow Dimok to continue operations in exchange for a percentage of their profits?"

"Yes."

"_No!_"

Marcus shut his eyes and called on the Force for calm. "Prime Minister Kresiri, why is this suggestion so repugnant to you?" he asked, opening his eyes.

The large man drew himself up and, with an air of finality, stated, "We refuse to let Ripoblus gain from the hard work of Dimok citizens."

"Hard work," Nexant scoffed. "It's practically theft! Taking our resources for your own use, probably to rebuild your own war machine to strike at us again."

Marcus stood and paced up and down the length of the table. "If hostilities continue as they have, it won't matter who obtains the ore mines. Both your worlds will become so mired in debt from the fighting that their production will make little difference in reviving either economy. You'll have crippled yourselves for something that would have little value in the end."

He went to the windows that dominated the west wall and gazed at the sun setting over the mountains, squinting into the glare cast on the transparisteel. "There's nothing to be gained from conflict," he said wearily, thinking back to the battle he'd been dragged into over a year ago, when his only wish was to help others make peace. Part of him was grateful to Dooku for opening his eyes to the truth of war; another part resented the master for making him face that darkness. "Only so much death."

He turned back to the Ripoblus and Dimok representatives and said, "If you lay down your arms for good and agree to a lasting truce, no more have to endure the slaughter. Lives can go on unburdened by fear. The Republic can help rebuild your ravaged worlds if you but let them."

He returned to his chair on the other side of the table, rested his hands on its back, and said, "Peace is the noblest cause sentient beings can endeavor toward."

As he resumed his seat, the sleeve of his cloak brushed a writing stylus off the table. He leaned down to retrieve it and heard transparisteel crack a split second before DeeJay crumpled to the floor in a clatter of duraplast, sparks shooting from a gaping, jagged hole in his chest plate. The delegates screamed and leapt to their feet, running in all directions.

"Everyone on the floor!" Marcus shouted, standing up and using the Force to upend the massive dining table. With a thrust of his hand, he pushed it against the spider-webbed window, giving the room some minor protection.

_Very minor_, he thought as another shot tore a large hole in the center of the thick, heavy wood, showering the Ripoblus, Dimok, and Republic ambassadors with splinters. _Someone must be trying to assassinate one of the prime ministers._

Raising his comlink to his lips, he called for the Senate Guard detachment that had accompanied them. "Get everyone away from the villa!" he ordered. "Get them to the auxiliary landing pad at the rear of the building. We have a sniper to the west."

Blue-robed guardsmen with sweeping, crested helmets dashed into the dining room, crouched low to present less of a target. Each man grabbed one or two of the delegates and pulled them toward the rear of the house, interposing their bodies between them and the table as more shots burst through the thick wood.

_That's not a blaster_, Marcus thought as he pulled his lightsaber from his belt and followed the evacuation. _A slug thrower of some kind, though I've never seen one capable of that kind of damage._

Behind the villa, on the building's east side, the Senate Guards herded the delegates onto a nearby shuttle, which would take them to a consular ship in orbit. There they would be safe from whoever had attacked them.

_No, not attacked them_, Marcus thought as he turned from the path leading to the shuttle. _Those shots were nowhere near either representative._ Picking his way along the mountainside, he replayed the scenario in his mind, noting that the first shot that took poor DeeJay out had passed right over his head, where he sat at the center of the table, directly between the two prime ministers. _The shooter was trying to hit me. By the Force, if I hadn't dropped that stylus…_

Calling on the Force, Marcus leapt along the rocky cliff faces, knowing where to place each foot or grab a handhold, even as it lent him speed. The sniper could have fired from kilometers away and the Jedi had to move fast if he hoped to catch him. He didn't dwell on the yawning chasms that stretched beneath his feet as he practically flew through the air; he simply focused on his goal and before long, he was sweating.

His comlink chirped at him. _No time for that now_, he thought, rolling his eyes.

A piece of the mountain shattered as he landed, shot out from under him by the unseen assassin. Gathering the Force around him, Marcus steadied himself, caught the ledge with his hands, and levered himself back up. More shots cracked around him as he leapt and dove, showering him with stone chips, some heated by the impact so that they burned, others flying so fast that they buried themselves in his skin. Before long, the Jedi was covered in nicks and cuts, more so on his palms where they scrabbled against the rough mountainside.

He began to probe with his mind, trying to sense the shooter's location somewhere out in the snow banks. He'd done a good job camouflaging himself, but the Force was not so easily tricked. _Your eyes can deceive you; don't trust them_, he thought, stretching out with his feelings. He caught a brief sensation of malice but it was immediately swallowed up by a stream of numbers, constantly shifting values of addition and subtraction. It was like static interfering with a comm transmission and Marcus couldn't get a reliable sense of the assassin's position.

The Jedi decided to bluff. "You can't hide forever," Marcus called. "Come out and give yourself up peacefully, and you won't be harmed." It was worth a try, after all; most criminals surrendered immediately upon confrontation with a Jedi.

Apparently this man was different. Marcus only received a split-second warning from the Force to raise his lightsaber and block the slug round. The projectile sizzled as it vaporized against the aqua-blue blade that snapped to life before his eyes. That, and the distinctive _snap-hiss_ as the lightsaber ignited, was the only sound. This was definitely no ordinary rifle the assassin fired.

Farther up the mountain, a number of explosions blossomed like bright orange flowers against the snowy white backdrop. Several hundred tons of snow tumbled like an advancing wall down the slope, headed straight for the wide-eyed Jedi. There was no escape. Clipping the lightsaber to his belt, Marcus squeezed his eyes shut, summoned the Force, and wrapped it around himself in a protective bubble, pushing outward with all of his might.

His comlink chirped again, nearly breaking his concentration. _Always while I'm busy_, he thought, gritting his teeth.

The avalanche passed on either side of him, and above, surrounding him, entirely blotting out the setting sun. It rumbled down the mountain, louder than the thousand beating feet of a stampeding bantha herd. He could feel it pressing down upon the bubble of telekinetic energy, threatening to pop it and crush him beneath its weight. Sweat broke out on his brow as he pushed back, calling more heavily upon the Force to keep his barrier in place.

###

Buruk dug himself out of his hiding place, pocketing the detonator as he stood on wobbly legs. He grimaced at the pins-and-needles sensation as feeling returned to them; he'd been laying, buried in the snow, for hours. The environmental seals on his _beskar'gam_ kept him warm, but the poor blood circulation was something that couldn't be helped. Hefting the Verpine shatter rifle over his shoulder, he trekked back up the mountain, hauling his gear in both hands, as fast his legs would carry him.

He hadn't expected to use the mines he'd placed along the summit and he doubted the avalanche would kill the _Jetii_. They had the most uncanny luck when it came to survival. He'd intended it as a diversion, nothing more, so he could bang out without giving away his position. He snorted in amusement as he thought, _Qate will probably expect me to reimburse her._

He checked his chrono. If his math was correct, he had five minutes until the hyperdrive ring would be back in Sepan VIII's blind spot, and from there he could rendezvous with the _Cuun'yaim_, still waiting up on the moon. He shifted his _shebs_ faster up the slope.

He had an appointment to keep.

###

Marcus inhaled slowly between his lips, held his breath for several heartbeats, and then exhaled through his nose. _Size is nothing_, he calmly told himself. His master had once said that—to the Force—the pebble was no different from the boulder.

_Or the avalanche_, he thought wryly.

He'd stabilized his protective bubble, holding the crushing weight of the snow at bay with the minimum amount of effort. In the meantime, he checked his comlink.

The first call he'd received was from Master Nurt Ulasac. He remembered the Twi'lek from the mission to Galidraan. _You mean slaughter_, he corrected himself. There was no better term for what had transpired there. The second was from Kit-Sun Wolfgana, another survivor of that debacle.

_No time for a chat_, Marcus chided himself, and he put the comlink away. He had to focus on escaping his frigid tomb. Reaching out to the Force, he felt his bubble, perceived its ovoid shape, and concentrated on reforming it, sculpting it into a wedge that pointed straight up. Slowly the snow began to shift around this new shape, displaced from directly above him into the spaces vacated by the changing field. With the Force, he began to levitate, lifting himself from the ground on which he sat, rising with the wedge through the packed layers. It was slow going, and strenuous, and he began to sweat in spite of the chill air.

Eventually, the ceiling began to lighten. Encouraged, Marcus redoubled his efforts, lifting himself faster, until a needle of light shone down on him. The needle became a beam and the beam became a pillar, and at last he was free. He slumped down into the snow, gasping for breath. Sweat in his hair and on his brow began to freeze.

The Jedi pulled himself up to his feet and stumbled down the mountain. The assassin was long gone by now, otherwise he'd have finished Marcus off the moment he escaped. Weakened from calling so heavily upon the Force, there was little the Jedi could have done to stop him. He must have assumed the avalanche had done his work for him.

Eventually Marcus made his way back to the villa. Per his instructions, all personnel had evacuated. They would rendezvous with him in the neighboring Abran system where he would inform the prime ministers that the attack had been on his life, not theirs, and hopefully talks would continue aboard the Republic cruiser. He was sure they were going crazy accusing each other of the assassination plot.

Climbing into his Delta-6 starfighter, he had the autopilot take him into orbit where he placed a call to Master Ulasac. The green-skinned Twi'lek appeared before him as a ghostly blue hologram shot through with scan lines, perched atop the HUD.

"Thank the Force you're safe," the master breathed a sigh of relief.

"Just barely," Marcus replied. "I was attacked in the middle of mediating the peace agreement here."

"That's what I wanted to warn you about," Ulasac said, nodding. "A Mandalorian survived." Marcus' guts froze at those words. "He infiltrated the Jedi Temple and stole information from the archives." Ulasac continued. "He's using it to hunt down and murder the Jedi that survived the battle. He's already killed Jomel and Zaruul."

"Have you warned the others?"

"Tarant has been informed," Ulasac answered. "But Dooku can't be reached; he's gone into seclusion somewhere on Serenno. And Zabth isn't answering his comlink. He's teaching his apprentice in the crystal caves on Chandrila."

"I'll go and warn him, then," Marcus said. "You should see to Dooku."

"Thank you Marcus," Ulasac replied, inclining his head respectfully. "May the Force be with you."

Before Marcus could return the sentiment, the transmission cut and the hologram vanished.

He sat back in the fighter's seat and considered what the master had told him. Mandalorians had always been a threat to the Jedi and the Republic. The few that still clung to their warrior past were especially dangerous, fanatics that wouldn't listen to reason. That was why they had been massacred at Galidraan. And now there was one still loose in the galaxy, a bloodthirsty savage, hungry with a dark lust for revenge.

Marcus' fighter docked with the hyperdrive ring he'd left in orbit, clamping securely to its frame. As his thoughts still dwelled on Galidraan's blood-soaked snow banks, he entered the coordinates for Chandrila into the navicomputer. Reaching for the lever to engage the hyperdrive, he wondered if, maybe, the warrior deserved his revenge. He pulled back on the handle and the ship leapt forward.

A moment later, fire consumed the universe.

###

Buruk watched with satisfaction as the Delta-6 flickered with pseudomotion, then exploded brilliantly. Whether the fighter itself had been destroyed or just the hyperdrive ring, leaving the Jedi stranded for eternity in hyperspace, he didn't care. He just knew that his target was dead and he was another step closer to putting the spirits of his comrades to rest and getting on with his life.

As the fireball faded, the Mandalorian turned away from the viewport and continued galloping around the cargo bay and making excited hooting noises as he gave Aerek a bantha ride.


	31. Down With the Sickness

In another life, Ganhuff Riscan had been one of the top trauma surgeons at Galactic General Hospital. He'd operated on untold numbers of patients of so many different species, that he could scarcely recall a third of them. He'd made obscene amounts of money too.

Ganhuff stifled a cynical laugh as he remembered those days, only two and a half years ago, and continued examining his patient. Aerek had been found on the lower levels of Coruscant, weak and malnourished, and Buruk insisted he receive regular checkups from the ship's doctor to ensure he didn't suddenly develop some debilitating ailment.

Aerek sat on the operating table in the medical bay, shoulders hunched, looking bored. His shirt lay folded neatly on a nearby countertop. Ganhuff checked the boy's throat, ear canals, and nasal passages. None showed signs of infection. He placed a sensor pad on Aerek's bare back; he shivered slightly at the press of cold metal. "Sorry, about that," the doctor said. "Could you breath slowly through your mouth, please?" He was acutely aware of Buruk leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest, watching him work.

Aerek's pulse, respiration, and reflexes were all normal. The scale said he was a little overweight for someone his height and age, but that was easily explained; his Mandalorian guardian had been making him do strength-building exercises, increasing his muscle mass.

"All right, you can hop down now," Ganhuff said, pulling off the medical interface visor he wore, and began putting away his various probes and sensors. He was glad to see his hands shook only slightly. His last hit had been fifty hours ago and he was feeling the craving acutely.

As Aerek pulled his shirt back on, the doctor smiled and reached into his vest pocket. Ever paranoid when it came to his ward, Buruk straightened where he stood, unfolding his arms, as though ready to spring into action. Ganhuff ignored him. "Here you go," he said, holding out a piece of candy in brightly colored wrapping. "A good boy like you deserves a sweetie." The Mandalorian relaxed visibly. _It's not like I'm going to give him one of my spice vials_, the doctor thought.

Aerek smiled up at him and accepted the treat. "_Vor'entye_," he said, unwrapping it and popping it into his mouth. He scampered over to Buruk and the two walked out of the med bay without another word. That didn't surprise Ganhuff. Not being turned in for the enormous bounty on his head was thanks enough.

He turned to the basin and washed his hands, stifling another laugh. He'd gone from being the galaxy's number one surgeon at a prestigious hospital, to a general physician aboard a tramp freighter. His patients were now a motley band of mercenaries and smugglers, and the payment for his services was his continuing freedom.

###

Buruk watched the rain-soaked world of Jabiim grow in the forward viewport as Morran Risant, the _Cuun'yaim_'s new pilot, plotted their landing course. The planet's surface was almost entirely obscured by storm clouds, an endless monsoon that deluged the muddy plains around the clock. On average, only five days out of the local year received no precipitation.

"I hate this planet," Morran muttered from the pilot seat, his lips clamped around a cigarette butt. "Can't keep my smokes lit."

"Well it's a good thing Mulokhai hasn't got us hauling beach blankets and sunscreen," the Mandalorian remarked and held on as they entered the upper atmosphere. At this altitude, hurricane winds buffeted the ship, shaking it like it was no larger than one of Aerek's toys. The rest of the crew were strapped in, either in their quarters or in the common room. Buruk preferred to be up front.

The glowlamps dimmed for a moment as they passed into Jabiim's peculiar electric field and rain began to batter the viewport, forcing Risant to pilot by instruments alone. The ship rolled slightly to port. "Fields starting the leach at the repulsors," the pilot mumbled, wrestling with the control yoke to compensate. He keyed the ship-wide comm and called, "Lynli, see what you can do to strengthen the repulsor field generators. I don't want to lose them on this mud ball."

"Copy that," the Twi'lek mechanic and first mate replied from the engine room.

Suddenly the ship dropped several meters. Buruk nearly struck his head against the ceiling. "_Osik!_ What was that?" he demanded, dragging himself into the copilot's seat and strapping himself in.

"Turbulence," Risant replied calmly, though his face was a mask of tension. "Sudden downdraft."

"Anything else?"

The pilot raised his eyebrows but kept his attention on the instrument panel before him. "Um, no?" Thunder could be heard crashing outside, so close it made their ears ring. "Just an electrical storm formed out of nowhere on top of us."

"Are we going to be able to land?"

"Sure we can land," Risant answered casually. "Whether or not it's under our own power's the real question."

An explosion and the shriek of twisting metal followed the next deafening thunderclap.

"What the _shab_ was that?" Buruk shouted as the _Cuun'yaim_'s nose pitched downward and the ship began to spiral.

Alarms and klaxons screamed and hooted before Morran calmly cut them out. "Lost the starboard maneuvering thruster—must have been a lightning strike."

Buruk gritted his teeth and braced for the crash.

"Everyone, hold on to something," the Corellian pilot called over the comm. His hands flew over the controls, trying to slow their descent, lowering the landing struts, and angling the deflector shields to try cushioning their fall.

The ship struck the soft earth, half burying itself, and spun around. Its momentum carried it to the crest of a hill where it slid backwards on the ever-shifting mud down to the bottom and finally came to rest. Buruk almost threw up. Instead, he asked, "Where are we?"

Risant consulted his instruments. "About ten klicks outside Cirrus. Not too far off course."

"Far enough," the Mandalorian said, unstrapping himself and heading back to check on the others. His first priority was his crew's wellbeing.

"You okay?" he asked, poking his head into the engine room.

Lynli was already hard at work, rewiring components, while the ship's utility droid, Wally, removed damaged parts from the turbine. "Compression coil's perforated and the alluvial dampers are burnt out," she replied, not looking up from her work. "They need to be replaced." A frown creased her violet features, and she added, "Half the starboard drive matrix is fried."

"Long as you're okay," Buruk said. "Send me the part numbers on my datapad and I'll pick them up in town." He touched her arm then let her get on with her work. They both had one-track minds in their own way.

Down below, in the cargo hold, he found Qate and Maalku stacking the spilled cargo containers back onto their pallets while Aerek swept up their scattered contents: replacement ball bearings for the mining equipment that dug out the planet's one major export.

"Nobody hurt?" the Mandalorian called down to them.

"How far away did we land?" Qate called back. Obviously, they were all fine.

"Ten kilometers," he answered. "Have to slog our way through the mud and bring back a wheeled transport to fetch the cargo." He trotted down the stairway to help them stack the crates back up. "Lynli's busy fixing things, so Qate, I need you to come with me to make the exchange. We also need to pick up a few things to get this bird airborne again and I need a strong back to help carry it all."

"What about me?" Ganhuff asked from the hatchway to the aft common room.

"I said a strong back," Buruk replied, lowering the boarding ramp.

###

The trek into Cirrus had been unpleasant at best and rigorous at worst. The first step off the ramp had seen them sinking up to their knees into the thick mud. The new swoop bike—acquired on Nal Hutta from the late Captain Tyrrel—couldn't carry two, so they had to proceed on foot. Every step they took elicited a nauseating _schlorp_ing sound that reminded the Mandalorians of wet rations being shaken free from duraluminum cans. Occasionally the muck would shift unexpectedly under their weight, spilling them onto the soft earth. By the time they reached the town two hours later, Buruk and Qate were soaked to the bone and filthy.

In other words, they looked like the locals.

The human Jabiimi wandered from place to place, unconcerned by the weather, carrying on as though it were a bright, sunny day. Mud caked their boots and the hems of their heavy cloaks while the endless rain plastered their hair to their heads in limp strands. Most of the men wore long beards with locks gathered here and there in braids or simple bindings like barbarian warriors from millennia past. They looked like they could handle themselves in a fight and Providence help whoever was foolish enough to test that.

Qate nudged him with her elbow and said in a low voice, "Notice anything peculiar about the natives?"

Buruk took a second look at the Jabiimi they passed, noticing how many of them were hunched over as they shuffled through the muddy streets. Nothing unusual about that in and of itself, really; lots of beings walked like that when it rained. A flash of lightning split the sky, momentarily illuminating the storm clouded twilight afternoon. In the short-lived brightness, he noticed strange purplish blotches at the corners of their mouths. _That's unsettling_, he thought.

Aloud, he answered, "Yeah… Wonder what that is."

Eventually they came to an office building with a sign outside proclaiming it to be "Cumulous Mining Inc." The receptionist at the front desk was a brown-haired woman whose skin appeared clammy, as if she'd just stepped in out of the rain, though her hair and clothing were perfectly dry. She had the same purplish markings at the corners of her mouth and around her nostrils. She didn't look up when they entered. In fact, she looked confused, staring at her datapad screen.

Buruk cleared his throat; that got her attention. "Yes? May I helps you?"

"I'm Buruk Kelborn, captain of the _Cuun'yaim_," he introduced himself, ignoring the funny grammar. "We spoke on the comm when I dropped out of hyperspace. We have a shipment of ball bearings for your company."

"Oh, of course," she said as if suddenly remembering.

"We'll be needing a transport," he added. "Storm dropped us about ten klicks from the city and all we have is repulsor equipment."

She turned back to her datapad and said, "I'll have one brung around front for you." Another confused look crossed her face as she looked between the datapad and the command console. After a moment, she stood, looking flustered, and said, "I'm sorry sir, but I'll be right back. I having trouble with mine terminal." She left the desk and stepped through a set of doors at the rear of the reception area.

"Is it just me, or does her Basic hurt your ears?" Qate asked.

"Must be a local dialect," Buruk shrugged it off. His datapad chirped at him and he found it contained a list of alphanumeric part numbers courtesy of Lynli, along with a note threatening him with hard yanks on his braid if he tried to bring back anything from a generic brand. He sighed.

They waited for twenty minutes but the receptionist never returned. Impatiently, Qate marched over to the doors the woman had disappeared through and poked her head in. She immediately drew back. "Buruk, call an ambulance."

"What? Why?" he asked, stepping up beside her. Peering over her shoulder, he saw exactly why. The receptionist lay facedown on the floor several meters away, perfectly still. He snatched up his comlink while Qate went to check the woman.

"She's not breathing," the Zabrak called to him as he gave the operator their location. "No pulse either. She's dead."

Paramedics were there inside ten minutes. They loaded the woman's body into the back of the ambulance while a police officer questioned the two Mandalorians. "Chalk another one up to the pandemic," the officer muttered.

"Excuse me? Pandemic?" Buruk demanded, grabbing the cop's arm.

"Started a few weeks ago," he answered, pulling free. "Don't you listen to the METOSPs? We're not under quarantine but travel's strictly at your own risk."

"Well what is it?" the Mandalorian asked.

The cop shrugged and stroked his beard thoughtfully. "No one at the local hospital seems to know and Congress hasn't released any information from the Health Department. Backwater like this doesn't really have to best medical experts. They sent word to the Republic requesting aide, but the operator must've been in the 'fresher when _that_ call came in because we haven't heard so much as a whisper back."

That was just perfect. Buruk pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration as he raised the comlink to his lips. "Doc, we need your expertise. Everyone else, _stay aboard the ship_."

The police officer snorted derisively. "Think your medic can do what our doctors can't?" he scoffed.

"Our 'medic' trained and practiced on Coruscant," Buruk replied. He ignored the unhappy look Qate threw him; there was definitely no love lost between her and the doctor. "He should be able to figure something out."

###

Gloved and masked, Ganhuff leaned over the slab, examining the woman from the mining company. The mortician had laid the body out for autopsy and talked him through his initial examination as he conducted one of his own. Ganhuff was pleased to hear that no mistakes had been made in handling the body. The staff members here, though not up to Core World standards, were at least competent in their duties.

The hike that had taken his Mandalorian comrades two hours had taken him a mere fifteen minutes. It had been less than comfortable, however; the swoop bike had no roof to keep out the driving rain. _No wonder they're getting sick_, he thought during the ride. _Pneumonia and influenza would run rampant on a world like this; the natives must be hardy folk indeed._

He checked the cadaver's ears for cerebrospinal fluid leakage; he found none. Likewise, there was no blood seeping from the purpled nostrils or any exterior signs of trauma. She'd very literally dropped dead. Neural imaging revealed that her brain had rapidly withered to a grotesque, misshapen form he'd seen only in lifelong alcoholics or those who suffered from malignant brain tumors. Whatever killed her had lain mostly dormant while the symptoms manifested, then suddenly kicked into overdrive.

Concluding the examination, he stepped out of the morgue to allow the autopsy to commence. Tossing his gloves and mask into a disintegrator unit, he turned to the hospital's chief of staff and asked, "Are there any patients with similar symptoms being treated here that I can have a look at?"

The chief, an attractive woman in her early thirties named Doctor Edaara Humilis, motioned for him to follow her, saying, "Come this way." She was a head shorter than him, with long auburn hair she kept gathered in a clip at the base of her neck. She walked with confidence, head high and shoulders back, while her gleaming black shoes clicked on the polished tile floor. She probably only wore them inside, Ganhuff mused, admiring her long, smooth legs as he followed.

"Where did you say you got your degree, Doctor?" he asked. He hoped he didn't sound condescending; he was just trying to make conversation. Though he had to admit, he hoped the answer wasn't "here".

"Contruum," Doctor Humilis answered, glancing back at him. "I've tried to pass on what I learned there to my personnel here, but let's face it; a world like this, there's not much to work with."

Ganhuff cleared his throat. "I, uh, apologize if I sounded rude…"

"Not at all," she assured him. "You just sound like a Core worlder." She looked back again but this time she smiled. He flashed his most charming grin for her in return.

Donning another set of masks and gloves, they came to a series of recuperative suites where patients lay convalescing, two or three to a room. Their charts indicated extremely high dialogen levels. Many displayed the isolated purpling around their mouths and noses. At least four vomited into their bedpans as Ganhuff inspected them. All complained of nausea and cold sweats.

On a hunch, Ganhuff wrote down a set of simple instructions on a sheet of 6limsy and handed it to a patient. The pale, bearded man looked confused, frowning at the sheet as though it were insulting him. He squinted, held it at odd angles, peered closely at it, and finally returned it to the doctor. "I can't not make sense of these," he said glumly.

This time Ganhuff frowned. He decided to read the instructions aloud. "Hold your hands out to your sides, arm length from your body. Touch the tip of your nose with your right little finger, then return to your original position. Next, tug on your left ear with only your thumb and middle finger, then return to your original position." The patient followed his instructions flawlessly. "All right, sir, you can lay back down now."

"What was that all about?" Humilis asked, following Ganhuff from the recuperative ward.

Ganhuff held up his hand and began ticking off symptoms on his fingers as he said, "Elevated dialogen levels in the bloodstream, inability to process written instructions, syntax errors in spoken communication, nausea, cold sweats, and isolated purpling of the breathing passages." With shaking hands, he peeled off his gloves and tossed them into a nearby disintegrator. "Rapid cerebral deterioration resulting in death. I think we're looking at Brainworm Rot, Type A."

Humilis frowned. "I've never heard of it."

"It's not too common, but when it hits, it hits hard and fast. Has Jabiim been visited recently by any Duros, Neimoidians, or Wol Cabbashites?"

"A delegation from the Trade Federation came to negotiate a trade agreement last month," she answered.

"Figures," Ganhuff sighed. "Neimoidians are common carriers—practically bred the kriffing disease. There's a good chance at least one of their crewmen had it and passed it along."

"How's it transmitted?"

"I'm afraid it's airborne. It breeds in the lungs where it can pass into the bloodstream and go straight to the brain with the oxyhemoglobin. When a carrier exhales, the germ hitches a ride on the carbon dioxide molecules."

She gulped behind the mask and her eyes grew worried. "Is it treatable?"

He put his hands in his pockets to hide their constant twitching and looked down at his shoes for a moment. He could feel the pain building up in his chest, a throbbing need. Within his trouser pocket, his hand closed around the tiny black vial that contained the spice. He was tempted to pop it right then and there. Then he met her eyes again and forced his hand to release it. He answered, "Antigen clyrossa-themin in bacta suspension."

That was bad news. Backwater planets on the Outer Rim were notorious for inadequate bacta supplies. The Republic would have to send emergency relief and Ganhuff knew the bureaucratic wheels of the Senate would be slow in turning. In the time it would take for help to arrive, hundreds of thousands could die.

"I'll do everything I can to help, Doctor Humulis," he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. They had to come up with a feasible alternative and he was the single most qualified man on the planet to do so. He began to feel the familiar anxiety that had led him to his addiction.

"Call me Edaara," she replied, reaching up to rest her hand over his. She didn't betray any fear in spite of the fact that he'd practically told her that her world was doomed; that was commendable. Ganhuff respected her more for it. She was strong and capable, unlike many of the women he'd known.

"The first thing we need to do, Edaara, is have Congress or whoever request emergency aide from the Republic."

She looked uncomfortable for a moment, likely doubting the Republic's ability to help just as he had. "I'll comm them," she said. "Then I'll scour the HoloNet for any information on alternative treatments for Brainworm Rot."

"I'll join you after I've checked on my friends," he replied, pulling his comlink from his pocket.

###

Buruk frowned as Qate flipped through channels on the holoprojector in the hospital's reception area. They showed nothing but emergency news broadcasts with updates on the pandemic, a bunch of talking heads advising people to stay in their homes and avoid contact with others. The death toll had risen sharply all across Jabiim in the last twelve hours and people were beginning to panic. Crawling lines of text at the bottom of the images listed symptoms and urged anyone experiencing them to seek medical attention immediately. Hospitals everywhere were being overrun with patients. None gave a definite answer about what the disease was but they all agreed that symptoms started to show within a few hours of exposure.

_So why aren't we showing signs yet?_ He wondered, glancing back at Qate. They'd practically been in the middle of ground zero since they arrived. She seemed perfectly calm, taking in the reports with a grim look on her face; nothing ever fazed the Zabrak woman. Qate embodied the old Mando proverb, _ke ba'juri ade, jagyc kotla bal dalyc kotla'shya_; train your sons to be strong and your daughters to be stronger.

"I don't like this," she said, breaking her grim silence for the first time in hours.

"You mean people puking their _epan_ out all around us before dropping dead?" he asked dryly. The waiting room was full of sick people, doubled over and groaning as they held their stomachs, sweating profusely. Every so often, one would run to the nearest refresher station, cupping a hand over their mouth; some didn't make it in time. They all bore the same purplish marks around their mouths and noses. Only the two Mandalorians appeared healthy.

"I mean trusting our lives—everyone's lives—to that _shabla_ glitbiter you call a doctor," she hissed. "I don't trust him any farther than I can throw him."

Buruk had seen Qate in unarmed combat and knew she could actually throw the doctor pretty far, but he decided not to point that out. Instead, he said, "He'll come through. Stitches me up all the time and does a fair job of it."

They lapsed into silence again for several more minutes, then jumped when Buruk's comlink chirped. "Buruk here," he answered.

Without introduction, the doctor said, "I've made my diagnosis: Brainworm Rot Type A." Relief flooded the Mandalorian; that explained why they weren't showing symptoms.

Then, remembering those not so lucky, he asked, "Anything you can do?"

"We're working on it but there isn't nearly enough bacta in supply to treat everyone." He sounded tired. "How are you and Qate feeling? Any nausea or cold sweats?"

"Negative, we're perfectly fine."

Ganhuff sounded confused, even through the comm. "You're both fine? How is that possible?"

"A spacefaring society of several different species, living in close quarters and fighting every type of warfare possible," he said by way of explanation.

He could hear the doctor slap his forehead. "Of course, you'd inoculate yourselves against a wide range of pathogens. And as a doctor, so was I." Buruk heard what sounded like a fist slamming down on a tabletop. "Damn it, why didn't I think of it before? I'll have an orderly escort you to the blood lab; we may have a chance to beat this!" He signed off without another word.

Buruk and Qate exchanged glances.

###

Ganhuff slipped into a supply room, closing the door behind him. Edaara oversaw the immunization protocol of the Jabiimi while Buruk and Qate donated as much blood as they safely could. The plasma would then be separated out and used to create serum, which could then be used to inoculate others. He would go down to the lab and contribute as well, but right now, he was in no shape to do so.

Ganhuff's heart raced and he could feel the pressure building in his chest as he wrung his hands together in the small storeroom. It was the pain, the familiar craving he struggled against every day of his tortured existence, clawing at him with the persistence of a ravenous beast that wanted fed.

Leaning against the door, his breath came in quick, shallow gasps bordering on hyperventilation, as he sank down into a sitting position. Fire raced along every nerve, begging to be put out with the salve of glitterstim. Trapped on a world of mud and death, he wanted badly to free his mind, to shed his body and fly free of all worry and pain.

"_No!_" he growled, slamming a fist onto the floor. This new pain was sharper, more distinct than that which coursed through his body. It was a pure sort of pain, not hungry or insistent, and it brought him back to reality. _I have to help these people and I can't do that if I'm witless!_

His fist uncurled and he felt despair overcome him as he watched his hand quake with the palsy of withdrawal. _What can you do if you can't even control your own body?_ a voice whispered in his mind. _You _need_ it to calm yourself._

He slammed his head back against the wall, hoping to evoke the same effect that his fist had had. _No_, he told himself. _Don't give in, don't give in! Fight, you miserable cur!_ He balled his fists and beat them against the floor until they were numb, the flesh of his knuckles cracked and bleeding. Weakly, he fell over and lay curled up in a fetal ball, rocking as he held himself; tears trickled down his cheeks as pain overtook him.

The last time he'd felt this way, he'd been locked up in the brig of Buruk's ship, waiting for the bounty hunter to turn him over to the Republic's Judicial Forces. He'd gone so long without the spice, he'd begun to hallucinate and hear things that weren't there. _Just reach into your pocket and it can all go away_, the voice said again. _The pain, the death, the crushing responsibility. All the pressures of the universe you can't deal with can just disappear._

That was the straw that broke the bantha's back. He wouldn't allow his own delirium to call him weak.

Shakily, Ganhuff rose to his feet, practically dragging himself up the wall by his fingernails, forcing himself to stand. "I… am not… _weak_," he rasped. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the tiny black vial that contained the crystal strand of glitterstim. "_I am not weak!_" he screamed, reaching back and hurling the vial against the wall with all of his might. It shattered and the spice ignited with a bright blue flare as the light activated it.

"I am not weak," he repeated, voice cracking. He sank to his knees and watched the spice burn brilliantly, casting its glow across the boxes of medical supplies.

But Ganhuff Riscan _was_ weak. He knew it all too well, despite his declarations to the contrary. He held himself at bay for as long as he could, but the craving, the _hunger_—the addiction—eventually won out. Pitifully, slowly, he crawled on hands and knees, sobbing and in pain, to the azure light on the floor, carefully picked it out from beneath the black shards of its container, and swallowed it.

He then rolled over on his back and shut his eyes before the drug took hold, hating himself for his weakness. In minutes, a warm blue tide washed away the shores of wretched reality and he swam amidst the swirling currents of psychotropia.

###

An hour later, depressed but exhibiting much more vitality, Ganhuff entered the bacta chamber. "How are things progressing?" he asked as he stepped up beside Edaara. To his delight, she didn't pull away when he gave her hand a light squeeze. _To hell with professionalism, no one can see us_, he thought. Indeed, no holocams hung in the corners of the ceiling and the patients floating suspended in the bacta tanks were unconscious.

"Very good," she replied, squeezing back, and showed him a chart. "The patients are responding to the clyrossa-themin treatment and should be ready to start producing additional serum stocks by tomorrow. In the mean time, I have lab techs synthesizing the samples your friends gave for mass production. We can begin inoculating patients as soon as they're done."

"Splendid," he said with a smile. He could feel his depression subside as a sense of accomplishment filled him. Finally, he was saving lives again instead of patching up the sundry wounds of a band of mercenaries prone to getting shot, stabbed, and bludgeoned.

Standing before her, he took both her hands in his. Looking down into her bright, intelligent eyes the color of umber, Ganhuff said, "Edaara, I hate that we had to meet under these circumstances… but I'm grateful to have found a woman like you in the galaxy." He leaned in to kiss her, a move she clearly hadn't expected, as her eyes grew wide with shock.

To his dismay, she pulled away from him and turned, putting a hand to her lips. "Too forward?" he asked wryly.

"No, it… it're not that," she said, sounding apologetic. She half turned and he could see a splotch of purple at the corner of her mouth where his unexpected kiss smeared her makeup.

His brows shot up and his body went rigid. "Edaara," he gasped. "You're… Why didn't you say something?"

She shook her head regretfully. "There was too much to do," she said. "Had to put the others first." So, she'd hidden her illness out of selflessness. Of course.

"Come on," Ganhuff said, taking her by the hand and leading her toward a cabinet. "You're not exhibiting cold sweats yet so there's time." Reaching inside, he withdrew a hypodermic, a length of rubber tube, and an alcohol swab. Sitting down, he disinfected the crook of his elbow while she tied the tube around his arm, then slapped it several times to expose the veins just below the skin.

Handing her the hypodermic, he gave her a wink and forced a grin. "Not exactly what I had in mind about playing doctor," he said weakly.

She smiled at his attempted joke and jabbed the needle into his arm, drawing dark venous fluid into the vacuum chamber until it was full. Withdrawing it, she placed gauze over the puncture, wrapped a bandage over it, and untied the rubber tube. "Here," she said, handing him the container of his blood.

Taking it, he placed it in a centrifuge. Waiting for the plasma to separate from the fibrinogen, red and white cells, and other clotting factors took several torturous minutes during which a panoply of horrid scenarios in which fate robbed him of this beautiful, brilliant, selfless woman played through Ganhuff's imagination. He squeezed Edaara's hand again, partly to reassure her that everything would be all right, partly to reassure himself that she was still with him.

At last the serum was prepared and Ganhuff injected it into Edaara's arm. Rolling down her sleeve, she said, "I'll need another treatment in about twelve hours."

"I know, but this should help things along. At the very least it'll halt the illness at this stage." Then, dispensing entirely with professional behavior, he put his arms around her. "You should lie down," he said. "Get some rest in the on-call room. I can take care of things for a while."

"All right," she said wearily, returning his embrace. "Thank you."

Eventually she pulled free and left the bacta chamber. Ganhuff plopped down on a chair and exhaled a long, relieved sigh.

###

Buruk and Qate found the doctor sitting in the bacta chamber, watching the hypnotic rise of bubbles drifting through the pale pink fluid in which unconscious patients floated, his back to them. "How's the treatment, Doc?" Buruk asked as they approached.

"It's going very well," he answered, still watching the patients bob up in down in the suspension. "Did you ever manage to sell the cargo?"

"We commed the mining company; they've got a trailer en route to the ship as we speak," the human Mandalorian replied, tucking his thumbs into his belt. "Guess, uh, your works almost finished here, huh?"

"It feels good to be saving lives again," Ganhuff said, turning to face them. He had a dreamy smile on his face. "I remember why I became a doctor in the first place. It's my calling to help people."

"As noble a calling as any," Buruk replied, starting to feel uncomfortable.

"I think I'm going to stay on Jabiim," the doctor said. There was the news Buruk feared. While they'd begun on extremely rocky ground, over the last year he'd come to rely on the glitbiter, even liking him. "Maybe I can get a job here at the hospital. I'll check myself in for rehabilitation first, of course. I can start my life over again."

"That's a nice thought," Qate said, her voice soft, to Buruk's surprise. "Settle down with that pretty chief of staff? Raise a passel of kids?"

"Oh, at least," Ganhuff answered with a smile. "I can bounce them on my knee and tell them stories of when their boring old dad used flew around the galaxy with a bunch of adventurers."

"That's the spirit," Buruk replied.

Suddenly a voice called over the intercom, "Code blue. All personnel, code blue."

"What's that?" Buruk asked.

"Patient requires immediate resuscitation," Ganhuff answered, rising to his feet and heading for the door. "All staff respond." They followed him out the door into the hall where doctors and nurses and droids hurried in the same direction. Ganhuff broke into a determined jog after them while the Mandalorians kept up.

When they saw where the medical staff were headed, Ganhuff broke into a full run, shouldering his way past the others. He slipped between an MD droid and a nurse carrying a defibrillator through a door. The plague next to it read "On-Call Room".

Buruk and Qate muscled their way into a scene that seemed unreal. They found a distraught Ganhuff on his knees next to a cot where Doctor Humilis lay motionless. He was applying CPR while a droid monitored her blood pressure and pulse. The nurse he'd shoved aside had a devil of a time dragging Ganhuff away so she could apply the defibrillator paddles. Someone said the chief of staff had gone into cardiac arrest.

Ganhuff stumbled back a few steps while the others tried to save Humilis. He sank to the floor in the corner, sobbing, covering his face with his hands.

"Get him out of here," Buruk told Qate. "Get him back to the ship."

"But the swoop won't—" she began to protest.

"Toss him over the steering vanes if you have to, just get him out of here," he growled. Qate took the doctor by the arms and steered him toward the door. Buruk stayed behind, covering their retreat and waiting to hear what would become of Doctor Humilis.

###

"You're sure?" Qate asked into the comlink several hours later. They were back aboard the _Cuun'yaim_ in Ganhuff's cabin. She'd remained with the doctor, keeping an eye on him so he didn't do anything rash. He hadn't said anything or even moved since they arrived. He just sat on his bunk, hugging his knees to his chest.

"That's what they told me," Buruk answered. He was on his way back to the ship with a trailer full of replacement parts for Lynli and had called to let Qate know what had happened. "Humilis died of cardiac arrest brought on by an allergic reaction to trace amounts of glitterstim in her bloodstream."

The doctor could hear every word of Buruk's report. He let out a long, agonized moan at the news. Qate felt a pang of sympathy for the man. She pocketed the comlink and sat down next to him.

"I killed her," he moaned. "I killed her trying to save her life. Just like the others."

"I know how you feel," Qate said.

Ganhuff looked at her with bloodshot eyes. "Don't patronize me, Qate. You're probably thinking, 'It figures the good-for-nothing glitbiter wound up killing her.'"

"No," she replied honestly. "I'm thinking you need help. And I want to try and give it."

"Why?" he demanded. "You hate me."

"No," she sighed. "I hate what the drug makes you." She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and pressed on. "My husband, Roklan… was a spice addict. He took a bodyguard job from a crimelord and got hooked on the stuff." Qate stared at her boots, feeling the loss squeezing her heart. "Eventually his employer got killed and he came hung strung out on Tempest. He wasn't in his right mind and went on a rampage through the house." She felt hot tears pour down her own cheeks as she relived what had happened that night. "He beat our little girl to death and nearly killed me too. I stabbed him in the chest ten times with a vibroblade before he finally went down."

After a moment to compose herself, Qate finished, "I'm going to do whatever it takes to get you clean, Ganhuff, because I don't want that happening to anyone ever again. Do you understand? I won't let your addiction tear any more families apart."

Ganhuff nodded once. "Thank you," he said quietly. "I'm glad to know someone cares."


	32. Buir

_Gar taldin ni jaonyc; gar sa buir, ori'wadaas'la_. Nobody cares who your father was, only the father you'll be. It was an old saying among the _Mando'ade_. It emphasized the important role one played as a father while deemphasizing the importance of one's own lineage. People were judged by what they did, not where they came from. One's children were the future and it was up to the parent whether or not that future would be positive or negative.

Buruk Kelborn's ancestors had fought in the Mandalorian Wars, millennia ago, and followed Mandalore the Preserver after the Scattering. He took pride in that lineage, even though it had no bearing on the present. Only the _aruetiise_ would judge him on that. More recently, he'd been the adopted son of Tor Vizsla, the bloodthirsty leader of the _Kyr'tsad_, the Death Watch. He took considerably less pride in _that_ lineage and reminded himself of those ancient words every day as he shaped Aerek into a proud _Mando'ad_.

They lay huddled together in a hunting blind on Vorpa'ya, peering through the camouflaged net at a large buck shatual as it rubbed its horns against a tree trunk a few hundred meters away. "Hold the rifle stock tight against your shoulder," Buruk whispered to the boy.

Aerek held a Czerka Outland rifle, a reliable slugthrower with a NightMight 4NS scope mounted on its upper rails. He'd practically begged for Buruk to finally teach him how to shoot, so the Mandalorian decided to take him hunting. They could use a decent meal, anyway.

"Control your breathing," the Mandalorian instructed his young ward. "Don't get excited. _Udesii._" Aerek relaxed and moved his finger inside the rifle's guard ring, resting the tip on the trigger. "Now, place the crosshairs over the target's center of mass and slowly squeeze the trigger."

A loud crack rang through the trees and the shatual slumped, toppling over on its side. Aerek lowered the rifle and placed the safety on, then turned to Buruk with a broad grin. "I hit it!" he declared proudly.

"Good shot, _ad'ika_," Buruk beamed, patting him on the back. "Now let's go collect our dinner."

###

Bursting with pride, Aerek followed Buruk through the woods to the body of the shatual he'd just shot. The rifle had a loud report that still rang in his ears and the recoil had left his shoulder sore, but neither complaint penetrated the fog of how good it felt to have done so well in front of his Mandalorian mentor. He almost forgot to unload the magazine before slinging the rifle over his shoulder as they walked downrange from their blind.

For months since he'd first come aboard the _Cuun'yaim_, Buruk had had Aerek doing calisthenics and weight training, marching and running and carrying things long distances. The Mandalorian had pushed the boy to limits he never knew he had, then pushed him even farther. There had been times when Aerek resented Buruk for the work he made him do but he never failed to swell with pride when he impressed the man.

It had been an entirely new feeling for him, pride. Aerek's parents had abandoned him in the slums of Coruscant's lower levels and he'd grown to adolescence not knowing what it was like to take pride in his accomplishments or for someone to say they were proud of him. Hearing it for the first time from Buruk had felt like someone lit a campfire inside his chest, spreading warmth all throughout his body.

In return, the boy adored Buruk. Aerek never missed an opportunity to spend time with him, playing starships or _meshgeroya_ in the ship's hold. By game's end, he always felt like his face would split open from smiling too much. He watched him go out on business and waited anxiously for him to return. He worried most when Buruk hunted Jedi, but knew even they couldn't kill the man; Aerek never hugged him tighter than when he came back from an encounter with one of those monastic warriors.

And Buruk never failed to take care of the boy. When Aerek could no longer run, Buruk carried him. When Aerek could no longer hump his _birgaan_, Buruk lightened his burden. If Aerek made a mistake camouflaging his position or evading detection, Buruk showed him how to correct it. In his eyes, Buruk Kelborn was the strongest, fastest, toughest, and smartest _Mando'ad_ ever. _And why shouldn't he be?_ Aerek thought. He was the center of the boy's entire world.

Now Buruk impressed him with yet another feat of strength. Grabbing the shatual by its legs, he heaved the carcass up and swung it across his shoulders. It had to weigh at least eighty-five kilos but he held it as if it were nothing. "We'll take this back to the camp and I'll show you how to field dress it," he said with a smile. "And we can polish the horns and have them mounted. Your first trophy."

"Okay," Aerek said excitedly, imagining the gleaming horns hanging on the wall of his room as he followed him back to the ship where they crew had made camp.

"But before we do that," Buruk continued, "you have to clean and oil the rifle."

"How come?" the boy asked. That didn't sound half as fun as firing it at a 2limsy target during sighting had been.

"Because if you don't keep it cleaned and oiled, it'll corrode," Buruk explained. "The powder from the slugs leaves residue inside and will gunk up the barrel and firing mechanism. After enough buildup, the rifle is useless. Take care of your equipment and your equipment will take care of you." He frowned for a moment, then added, "My _buir_ told me that a long time ago."

Aerek nodded his understanding and kept pace.

###

"You got a message," Lynli said to Buruk when he and Aerek returned to the camp. Morran had set the ship down in a small clearing deep in the woods, then they'd covered it with a camouflaged net that would baffle most sensors and blend it with the surrounding trees when viewed from above. Now Qate tended to kettle boiling over a small fire she'd built beneath the Firefly's jutting cockpit, waiting to cook whatever game the other Mandalorian brought back while the pilot played a round of sabacc with Maalku and Ganhuff. The doctor now sported an icepack held precariously over his blackened left eye, a souvenir from Qate's ongoing detox treatment.

"What'd it say?" Buruk asked with a grunt as he strung up the dead shatual.

"Couldn't read it," the Twi'lek answered, pulling her dirty work gloves free, one finger at a time. As the _Cuun'yaim_'s chief mechanic, she spent most of her time repairing whatever damage or glitches the ship suffered; even after a week, she was still trying to work out the kinks from their crash landing on Jabiim. "It's in Mando'a."

He gave her a confused look as he plunged the blade of his vibrodagger into the shatual's pelvis and began cutting it open. "Qate couldn't translate it?"

Lynli looked away momentarily, controlling her gorge. "Refused after the first line," she explained, watching blood pour onto the ground beneath the carcass from the corner of her eye. A thick, coppery smell filled her nostrils as he worked. "It began '_Ner dar'vod Buruk_.'"

He locked gazes with her, his brow creasing. Then, withdrawing the knife from the shatual, he called over his shoulder, "Qate! Take over for me." He didn't wait to see if the Zabrak listened.

"Do you think it's from Kex?" Lynli asked, following him back into the ship, her lekku twitching nervously. She'd seen how he got when he thought he had a lead on Kex; it's wasn't fun to watch.

"Don't know," he grunted. His stride was long and purposeful, shoulders slightly hunched, as his boots clanged ominously on the boarding ramp. Lynli recognized it as his "angry walk".

Up in the cockpit, he punched up the message on the terminal, muttering the words aloud. Uncomfortably, Lynli asked, "Well, what's it say? Is it from Kex?"

"Don't know," he admitted, taking a deep breath to calm himself. "It just says, 'Pandath, Taanab, two days,' followed by a timestamp."

She laid a hand on his arm, squeezing gently. "Hey, it could be anything," she pointed out. "Don't get all worked up over it. It could be a job."

"I know," he said. Lynli doubted he really believed it, though.

###

Two days later, Buruk, encased in his _beskar'gam_ and draped in his drab cloak, entered the Whirling Mynock cantina in Taanab's capital city of Pandath. His T-visored gaze wandered over the patrons, looking for Kex's short-cropped, brown hair. None of the humans matched his description, however.

"_Su'cuy gar_," someone said behind him.

Buruk spun, drawing one of his blaster pistols and leveling it at the newcomer's face in a single motion. The act drew the attention of the saloon's other occupants, eliciting gasps from some while prompting others to take cover in expectation of imminent violence.

The speaker also wore Mandalorian armor, black plates over a deep blue jumpsuit with a gold cape draped over one shoulder. A pair of chiseled horns crowned his _buy'ce_, adding even more menace to the T-shaped visor that already struck fear into most beings. This man was a Death Watchman.

"Tell me why I shouldn't burn you right now," Buruk growled.

He held his hands out at his sides, showing that they were empty. Buruk didn't lower his blaster; only a major _di'kut_ with the loneliest of brain cells thought a Mandalorian without a gun was unarmed.

Slowly, he reached up and pulled off his helmet. He was human, male, around the same age as Buruk. He had jet-black hair and grey eyes, half of his right ear was missing, and his nose looked like it had been broken a few times in his life. Buruk recognized him immediately.

"What do you want, Viba?" he demanded, still holding his gun on him.

"Not a fight, first of all," Teti Viba answered. "Just passing on some news I thought you'd want to hear. Vizsla's dead."

That hit Buruk harder than he expected. He lowered his blaster. "How?" he asked.

"Jango," Viba answered, turning away and sitting down at the nearest booth. Still reeling, Buruk sat across from him.

"Jango's free?" he asked distantly. That figured. If anyone wanted Tor Vizsla dead more than anyone in the galaxy, it was Jango Fett; the Death Watch's leader had killed his family. Both of them.

"Yeah," Viba said, his voice dripping disgust. "And he just tore out the heart of the last group of _Mando'ade_ still honoring the old ways. The man who took you in, who raised you. He made you his _son_, for fierfek's sake and you may as well have spat in his face." Viba had admired Vizsla, one of the few soldiers that believed his drivel about returning the _Mando'ade_ to the glory of their Taung ancestors instead of just joining him for the chance to rape and pillage.

His indictments stung Buruk. "How'd it happen?"

Viba leaned back in his seat and folded his arms across his armored chest. "Rammed a starfighter into the _Death Rattle_'s engine block while we were in orbit over Corellia, and then blasted his way in through the main viewport. Vizsla ordered everyone to abandon ship, saying he'd deal with the intruder. I watched the ship break apart in the atmosphere on the way down in an escape pod.

"We plotted the last pod's trajectory and found his body a few hours later, down river from where it made touchdown. He'd been torn apart by a pack of dire cats."

Buruk sat, numb, taking it all in. He'd spent the last twenty years telling himself that he despised Vizsla, and now, upon hearing him pronounced dead, he felt a sudden overwhelming sense of… what? Loss? It couldn't be that; he'd severed all ties when he'd declared the man _dar'buir_.

Viba got up to leave. Swallowing past a lump that had formed in his throat, Buruk grabbed him by the wrist and asked, "Why'd you bother telling me?"

The Death Watchman looked at him with contempt and said, "You're in his will. I thought you might want to do the decent and be there when we bury him on Duro tomorrow." He pulled free and left the cantina, replacing the horned _buy'ce_ over his head.

Buruk's foggy thoughts resolved into sharp focus then and he recognized the emotion wriggling around in his gut.

It was guilt.

###

Lynli was waiting for him, kicking a bolo ball back and forth with Aerek, when Buruk returned with a haunted look. Picking up the ball and tossing it back to the boy, she said, "That's enough for now. Go tell Morran to recall the others from town so we can raise ship."

"Okay," Aerek nodded, turning and trotting up the boarding ramp.

Turning her attention back to Buruk, she draped her lekku casually over her shoulders and asked, "So, how did the meeting go?" After a pause, she added, "Was it Kex?"

He shook his head, never meeting her gaze. Something had him rattled. The tips of her lekku twitched nervously. "Come on," she said, taking him by the arm and leading him up the ramp. "Let's talk someplace private." Something was definitely eating at him because he didn't pull away, just let her lead him through the ship.

In the engine room, she tapped W4-L3 with her foot, rousing him out of the droid equivalent of sleep. "Wally, go run another diagnostic on the starboard maneuvering engine, okay?" she ordered, motioning out the door with her head. The little utility droid warbled in displeasure as he rolled out of the engine room, leaving them alone. Lynli sealed the hatch behind him and turned back to face Buruk who'd slid down the bulkhead into a sitting position.

"Okay, what's wrong?" she asked, kneeling down before him.

He looked at her for the first time since he'd returned from the cantina and she could see the hurt in his eyes. "He's dead," he croaked.

Confused, she tilted her head to the side. "Who? Kex? Is Kex dead?" She couldn't deny that she hoped it was true; if he was dead maybe Buruk would put a stop to his plan to kill off the remaining Jedi from Galidraan.

The Mandalorian shook his head and mouthed a silent, "No."

Lynli took his hand and squeezed comfortingly. "Who, Buruk? Can you tell me?" That was an important question. He was generally tightlipped about whatever anguished him, especially when she tried to open him up.

"My… ex-father." His voice nearly broke on "ex".

Lynli didn't understand Mandalorian customs but he'd mentioned a man named Vizsla as his father before. Nonetheless, she pulled him into a hug. _He sounds like he could use one_, she thought. "Tell me about him?"

She felt him let out a shuddering breath and put his arms around her. "I was four," he began, "when Vizsla adopted me; Mandalorians do that with war orphans sometimes, even when they're the ones that orphaned them in the first place. It's hard to explain, but the point is he took me in and raised me as his own.

"He taught me how to soldier, how to survive in the wild… how to open a man's throat with my fingers. He also taught me about Mandalorian history and what it meant to be of the _Mando'ade_. He gave me my identity, my way of life. _Tor'buir_ was every bit my father."

Lynli listened intently, nodding occasionally. She was reminded of Master Sang, the Kel Dor that had sheltered her for a time after her escape from Zordo the Hutt. He'd taught her similar things, how to fight and how to survive. He'd also been the closest thing she'd ever had to a father and the memory of his fate still stung.

"His followers, the _Kyr'tsad_, were a bunch of lowlifes," Buruk continued. "Cutthroats and bullyboys that flocked to his banner when he promised them plunder on a crusade that would sweep across the galaxy and revive the Mandalorians' past glory. He said he embodied their ancestors' will to conquer all they laid eyes on and that they'd return to Mandalore to reclaim their birthright from the pacifists that bared their backside to the Republic.

"And I abandoned him," he sobbed. "I stole a ship and ran to the opposition, Jaster Mereel's True Mandalorians. I left a message on _Tor'buir_'s datapad, declaring him _dar'buir_—no longer a father." By now tears ran down Buruk's cheeks and he wiped them away shamefully. "That's the worst disgrace a Mandalorian can suffer, for his own child to disown him. Everything I am is because of him and I dishonored that gift like a selfish little _osi'yaim_."

Lynli held him tighter, stroking his hair and patting him on the back as he lapsed into another sobbing fit. She had no idea what to say; I'm sorry seemed awfully trite for the amount of emotion he'd just poured out to her. It was like nothing she'd ever seen from him before. His emotional armor had been broken through and the dam had just burst.

"You can make it right," she assured him. "You can make it right. You can pass that gift on to Aerek, just like you're doing, and that'll honor Vizsla's memory."

Buruk pulled away and looked into her eyes. His were rimmed red and his cheeks shone where tears had streamed down his face. Swallowing, he nodded and said, "You're right." He nodded again, cleared his throat, and repeated, "You're right. I can make things right."

Then, without warning, he leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead and said, "_Vor'e, cyar'ika._" Standing, he composed himself, walked to the intercom, and announced, "Risant, when everyone's aboard, set a course for Duro."

"Aye-aye, Captain," Morran answered.

Buruk turned, gave her a heartfelt smile, then walked out of the engine room.

###

It was the dead of night when they arrived. Far from the planet's industrial centers, the _Cuun'yaim_ set down on an open plain of dry, hard packed soil and scrub grasses. The great factories that churned smoke into the air and poured wastes into the waterbed ensured the ground was suitable for no form of cultivation. Most Duros lived offworld in enormous orbiting arcologies, self-sustaining artificial cities wholly independent of each other and the world below.

Aerek looked out at the bleak landscape illuminated by the vessel's running lights and felt somehow offended. Coruscant had had no land on which to raise crops or livestock or to hunt wild game but this world had plenty and its inhabitants spoiled it. It offended him that some beings could be so deliberately wasteful of what they had.

Buruk stepped up behind him, alongside Lynli, Qate, and the others, and placed a hand on his shoulder. The two _Mando'ade_ both wore their armor, even their helmets, but the sinister T-shaped visors didn't intimidate the boy; by now, he found them comfortingly familiar, reassuring that there were others who shared his sensibilities and that he could readily identify them.

"Let's go meet the family," Buruk said with a sigh. They stepped out into the chilly night air, leaving the pool of light cast from the cargo hold, and kept walking. Aerek had no idea where they were headed. Buruk had said he was going to give his father the goodbye he should have a long time ago.

Several floodlights snapped on, splashing them with blinding illumination. Those without the benefit of glare-dampening helmets threw their hands up to shield their eyes while Buruk and Qate snapped up weapons, ready to return fire. Out of the brightness stepped several humanoid silhouettes that resolved into suits of _beskar'gam_. "Glad you could make it," the one in the lead said.

"I owe it to him, Viba," Buruk replied, holstering his weapon.

The lights dimmed slightly, casting the field in a less harsh glow, and Aerek's dazzled eyes slowly adjusted. Several dozen armored men and women, human and nonhuman, milled about the field, drinking and socializing. Children ran about playing glowrod tag and other games. This was supposed to be a funeral?

Buruk knelt down next to him. "This was a battlefield a long, long time ago," he said. "_Te Ani'la Mand'alor_ led an army so vast, their _bes'uliike_ blotted out the sun as they rained down on the orbiting cities. With Duro won, _Mand'alor_ made the Core shiver in fear and anticipation of his next conquest. But just as any battle, once it was over, there were dead to bury. Thousands of honored _Mando'ade_ lay beneath the ground here in an unmarked mass grave. And it's here we lay Vizsla to rest tonight."

"But why not a marked grave?" Aerek asked.

"Marked graves are an honor reserved for _Mand'alore_ alone," he explained. "There isn't time or materiel in a campaign to leave markers for every fallen warrior so we give in to expedience and carry their names forever in our hearts and memories. Otherwise a lot of planets would be nothing but fields of headstones."

Aerek understood and nodded. The nomadic lifestyle of warfare demanded dispensing with remains quickly and efficiently, so mass graves where the method of choice for a people that abhorred cremation or disintegration. Another facet of the pragmatic Mandalorian mindset.

"There's something else I need to do before we start," Buruk said. "Aerek, _ni kar'tyli gai sa'ad_."

Aerek's heart nearly stopped. Buruk had just said, _I know your name as my child_. Did that mean…?

"I formally adopt you," he explained, "in the tradition of _gai bal manda_. Name and soul."

The boy felt like his chest would implode and he turned and threw his arms around the man in a fierce hug. Tears of joy trickled down his cheeks but he didn't feel ashamed. He knew his father wouldn't think less of him for it.

At length, Buruk let out a hoarse chuckle and held the boy at arm's length. "Okay son," he said. "Give your _buir_ some air." Taking a few deep breaths, he stood and ruffled Aerek's hair. "Go play. I've got other business to tend to."

###

As Aerek ran off to join the other children, Lynli and Qate walked up beside Buruk. "Well?" the Zabrak asked. "Did you do it?"

"Yeah," he answered, watching the boy steal a bolo ball and subsequently be tackled by a little blonde-haired girl with braided pigtails half as long as her body.

"It's about time," Qate muttered and wandered off to mix with the other _Mando'ade_, which was impressive on it's own; they were Death Watchmen and she'd fought for Jango Fett, after all.

Lynli put her arm around Buruk's waist and watched as the little girl and Aerek wrestled on the ground. "Don't they look cute together?" she asked, chuckling.

"They sure do," he answered. Then, pulling away from Lynli, he walked back to take care of Vizsla.

"I'm ready," he announced to Viba and a group of others. Viba nodded and they walked to the grave they'd dug out of the unfertile soil. Next to it, wrapped in blankets, lay the remains of the Death Watch's leader. Piled to one side was his armor, the black, heavy _beskar_ plates stacked neatly for Buruk to carry away.

Taking his place at Vizsla's head, he knelt down and laid a hand on the man's shoulder. He whispered, "_Ni kar'tayli gai sa'buir. Ni su'cuy, gar kyr'adyc; ni partayli, gar darasuum_ Tor Vizsla." Then, lifting his shoulders while Viba held his legs, they raised the body up and settled it gently down into the hole. Stepping back, the other Death Watchmen began to fill in the grave.

Buruk didn't know if it had any legal precedent in Mando society, but he didn't much care. He'd recited the _gai bal manda_ rite, substituting the word for parent in place of the one for child, and he'd honor Vizsla's memory for the rest of his days by adding his name to those he recited each night before bed. If there was indeed an afterlife like so many beings believed, Buruk hoped that _Tor'buir_ knew his son had finally made his peace with him and that, maybe, he was proud of the man he'd become.


	33. The Wreck of the Duska Antilles

The stomach-churning sensation of falling overtook Buruk and he jerked awake, heart racing, only to smack his forehead against the ceiling of his quarters aboard his ship, the _Firefly_-class transport vessel _Cuun'yaim_. Groaning, he rubbed his sore cranium and blinked away the stars dancing in his vision. He, along with his pillow, bed sheet, and everything else in the room not bolted down tumbled through the air in freefall. _What the hell?_ he wondered groggily. Pushing off the ceiling, he drifted down to the cabinet that held his clothes, hastily tugged on a pair of trousers, and pulled himself up the entry ladder as his stomach continued to do flip-flops.

"Risant?" he called down the corridor to the cockpit.

"Grav died," the pilot, Morran Risant, answered his unspoken question. Buruk could see that he was strapped into his seat, surrounded by a miniature asteroid field of cigarette butts and ash clusters. "Also… we appear to be leaking fuel."

Shabla nu'jate osik, the Mandalorian thought. Repairing the damage from their crash landing on Jabiim had essentially wiped them out financially. Worse, new problems continued to crop up, pushing their repair bills higher and higher each time.

Buruk's stomach grumbled. Food rationing had been one of the first money-saving strategies they'd implemented, though he still gave a portion of his own allotment to Aerek; he'd starve before letting his son go hungry. Ignoring the growling in his guts, he made his way toward the ship's stern, through the galley, to the engine room.

"Well?" he asked, resignation in his voice.

Lynli hovered upside down over the Firefly's big radial engine, buried up to her shoulders in the ship's guts so that all he could see of her head were the ends of her supple lekku. Poor Wally spun his wheels madly in a fruitless effort to make his way over to a sparking wire bundle; like everything else, he floated just above the deck, unable to move himself.

"Fierfek!" the Twi'lek cursed in Huttese as she pulled herself free of the engine and stuck singed fingers in her mouth. Then, wiping sweat and engine grease from her face, she looked at Buruk and said, "Main fuel valve's busted and needs replaced. Same with the grav generator."

"We're in the middle of deep space," Buruk pointed out. "Aren't a whole lot of roadside parts stores to be found out here."

"Well without fuel, the engine doesn't turn," she snapped. "Engine doesn't turn, atmo shuts down and we all suffocate. Even Maalku." She referred to the Gand member of their crew, an ammonia breather whose quarters received its own specialized gas mixture so he could remove his normal breathing apparatus and live comfortably aboard the ship.

Just then, the intercom crackled to life. "Much as I hate to interrupt you two lovebirds," Risant's voice said, "I just got a ping on the sensors."

"Another ship?" Buruk asked.

"We'll know in a minute or two."

The Mandalorian turned back to Lynli in time to see a smug grin appear on her face. "Think we just found our parts store," she said with an air of self-satisfaction.

###

Morran took another drag from his cigarette, the end flaring brighter as he enjoyed the smooth flavor of the burning t'bac. A thin wisp of blue-grey smoke curled away to be sucked up by the atmosphere scrubbers and filtered out of the ship's air. Most sentients regarded his smoking as a filthy habit, but as long as Ganhuff, the ship's doctor, drew everyone's attention with his spice addiction, no one on the ship bothered him about it.

"What've we got?" Buruk asked, floating up behind him into the cockpit.

Focusing the ship's sensors, Morran brought up a read on the object they'd encountered several kilometers off the port bow, just out of visual range. "No engine emissions so I can match any drive signatures to it," he explained, tapping a few keys on the control panel. "Definitely artificial though; got a durasteel outer hull."

"Bring us in closer," the Mandalorian ordered.

"You sure?" the pilot asked, tapping ash from his cigarette. "Could be an ambush. Pirates, slavers, Judicials…"

"Don't have much choice," Buruk pointed out. "We need parts and fuel, and that's the likeliest place to find both."

"Suit yourself," Morran replied, snorting a stream of smoke from each nostril. As they approached, the image on the sensor board coalesced into an Action VI transport. It showed no running lights and the viewports were dark. Morran tried to hail them. "Action VI, this is _Cuun'yaim_, do you read?" After a few silent heartbeats, he tried again. Still no answer.

"Okay, bring us alongside her," Buruk instructed. "Let's go knock."

Morran stubbed out his cigarette, lit another. He had a bad feeling about this. For starters, stumbling across a vessel on the drift this far out into space was practically unheard of. Secondly, as far as he could tell, the transport's hull appeared undamaged.

Soon, the Action VI grew in the forward viewport, the angular lines of its box-shaped hull and steeply angled bow blocking out the stars. There were no buckled hull plates, no streaks of carbon scoring to show where lasers had impacted, no shattered viewports where atmosphere could have vented. It just looked abandoned. Reflexively, Morran tried hailing again. Only silence answered.

He'd encountered a ghost ship once before, back when he was a pilot for the Republic Judicial Forces. It had been an old Corellian freighter outside the Parmel system, rotating slowly to port as it drifted. When they came within a hundred meters of it, it exploded, disabling their vessel and leaving them stranded. An hour later, a pirate ship dropped out of hyperspace and attacked. Luckily, the captain had been ready to repel boarders. They captured the pirate's own vessel and used it to return safely to Republic space.

Remembering the pirate attack sent a chill up Morran's spine; the Firefly was no Judicial ship and the crew wasn't exactly trained to fight pirates. _Well_, he amended, taking a drag on his smoke, _Buruk and Qate could probably handle it._

###

"Okay," Buruk said as Qate checked over his _beskar'gam_'s vacuum seals. There was no telling what kind of toxic atmosphere might be left aboard the Action VI transport or even if there was an atmosphere at all, so they were playing it safe. "Priority is the engine room; we need a fuel valve and a gravity generator matrix."

"Check," Qate replied, taking a step back and allowing him to check her own suit over. "Next is fuel itself." Then a sly grin touched her lips beneath the concealing Mandalorian helmet and she added, "Then we go after medical supplies and other valuables."

Buruk's T-visored gaze looked up at her, as if surprised she'd mentioned medical supplies first. Then he returned his attention to his inspection, apparently dismissing it. The truth was she wanted to find something to help treat Ganhuff's spice addiction; conergin would put him under so he wouldn't suffer the withdrawal symptoms.

"Check," Buruk said. Then, standing straight and hefting a heavy backpack, he asked, "Ready, Findsman?"

A few meters away, Maalku slid back the nictitating membranes over his shiny black eyes. "Though his perch may be comfortable, the fambaa is not long for the fence," he buzzed through his mask's vocabulator. Qate had no idea what that was supposed to mean, if anything, but ignored it. The Gand had a habit of reciting strange, incomprehensible proverbs and she suspected he was at least half-mad.

Together, the three of them stepped into the airlock. Once pressure equalized, the outer hatch opened and they were presented with the Action VI's exterior lock. Qate stepped forward with a coil of detonite cord, threading it along the lock's seal. Stepping back, she called, "Clear." The others echoed her and she barked, "Fire in the hole!" On activation, the detonite flashed silently in the vacuum and Buruk stepped forward to jam a simple durasteel crowbar into the thin opening she'd made. Once he had it separated far enough apart, he used a repulsor jack to open it the rest of the way.

As they stepped into the transport's airlock, Buruk called over the comlink, "Okay Lynli, seal the outer hatch." It was necessary, now that the Action VI's no longer functioned.

The airlock slid closed behind them, cutting them off from the _Cuun'yaim_. Qate felt her adrenaline pumping and covered the inner hatch with her double-barreled blaster while Buruk slid the pack off his shoulders. Breaching had always been her specialty but now her part was over and she had to leave it to him. He went to work wiring the airlock to an external power generator, the kind used for heavy crew-served blaster cannons.

The inner hatch slid open without dramatics of any sort. Together, the three boarders inched their way cautiously into the ship. The corridors were dark and crowded with packing crates, creating a winding maze through the desolate vessel. Without illumination, the two Mandalorians had to rely on their helmets' built-in light amplifiers as they made their way forward toward the bridge.

Qate's breath echoed in her ears as she glanced over the crates choking the hallways. They were labeled with generic words like "Food," "Tools," and "Energy Cells." She stopped to inspect one of the crates. Its seal was undamaged and, judging by the thick coating of dust, had been left undisturbed for quite some time.

What was this ship doing drifting through space with its supplies untouched? And for that matter, where was the crew? As the questions buzzed around in her mind, she began to have a very bad feeling about this.

###

They spent an hour searching the ship from stem to stern and found no one aboard. The escape pods had been jettisoned and in several places, they found signs that the passengers had dropped whatever they were doing and left; plates of moldering, half-eaten food still lay on tables in the galley alongside half-empty cups of caf. Children's toys lay scattered about the corridors that tugged at both Buruk's and Qate's heartstrings. Whatever happened happened fast.

With power restored to the ship, they found an open log entry that said the transport had been pulled out of hyperspace and attacked by pirates. A common enough occurrence, to be sure, but if they'd been boarded, the vessel didn't show it. There were no signs of forced entry anywhere, no ransacking of quarters or marks from stray blaster shots. And those sealed containers full of supplies…

Buruk put it out of his mind and called on the comlink, "Okay, the ship's clear. Lynli, Aerek come on over and start loading up on parts. Maalku and Qate will clear out what's left in the fuel tanks and the galley."

"What about you?" Qate asked suspiciously.

"I'm going to hit the cargo hold," he said matter-of-factly. "Let's be quick about it; we may have hit the jackpot with this ship." With that, he turned and headed amidships, expecting them to carry on as he'd instructed.

The cargo hold was, naturally, secured. However, judicious application of a cutting torch made short work of the lock; the thin jet of plasma burned through the outer casing and melted the inner mechanism to slag in less than minute. Forcing the door aside with the crowbar, Buruk peered into a scene out of _haran_.

Mangled bodies lay stacked in neat piles like cords of wood, blood and ichor coating the bulkheads and deck. Buruk frowned, looking over the corpses; they'd been mutilated, their flesh cut to ribbons and peeled away from muscle and bone, lipless mouths grinning up at the ceiling. Their own intestines had been used like bailing twine to hold them together.

Keying his comlink, he put in a direct call to Qate. "Keep Lynli and Aerek away from the cargo hold," he instructed. "I found the passengers."

"Copy," she replied. "Bad?"

"Worse than I've heard any pirate doing."

"That's pretty bad," she said mildly. "You sure it was pirates?"

"Not so much," he conceded, searching around the bodies for any cargo containers that may have held something of value. "The hold was left sealed and the crates don't look like they've been disturbed either." He opened one labeled "Distiller"; inside where the intricate workings of a contraption used to purify water to make is suitable for drinking. "What's your status?"

"Maalku's siphoning off fuel," she answered. "I'm grabbing ration packs from the galley."

"Good. Once Lynli's finished grabbing the parts she needs, I want everyone off this boat."

"Copy," Qate replied. "You got a bad—"

She was suddenly cut off. Buruk didn't bother trying to call out to her. He turned and ran for the galley, switching the comm to an open channel, and barked, "Morran, seal the ship!"

"What happened?" the pilot asked tensely.

"Just do it!"

Buruk charged through the darkened corridors, weaving between crates, and climbed a service ladder up to the next deck, taking its rungs two at a time. He found the galley door open and, amidst a strewn heap of foil-wrapped ration packs, a ragged humanoid sat atop Qate, pinning her arms beneath its knees and beating its bare fists against her armor, snarling and ululating wildly.

Buruk snapped up his blaster and fired, the bolt sizzling through her attacker's chest; it didn't even draw its attention. Buruk raised his aim point and fired again; the creature's head burst, spraying bits of skull and grey matter across the room. The headless body toppled forward over Qate and she heaved it off herself, climbing to her feet.

"You okay?" he asked, feeling his pulse slowly quiet. "Where'd it come from?"

"Dropped out of a ventilation duct," Qate answered, picking her weapon out of the scattering of ration packs. "Had me pinned before I even knew it was there."

The two Mandalorians squatted down to inspect what remained of her assailant. It might have been human. It's mottled grey skin was swathed in dark rags and its hands terminated in five digits with dirty, broken fingernails. "Did you get a look at its face?" Buruk asked.

"Yeah," she replied with a slight shudder. "Looked human, except for the skin and the glowing red eyes."

"Glowing eyes?" Buruk hissed as a sarlacc squirmed in his gut.

"Like glowrods," Qate insisted. "Only things visible under his hood."

Buruk keyed his comlink. "Lynli, Aerek, Maalku, we're leaving," he ordered. "Meet us at the airlock."

Standing, he turned in time to see two more shabby beings stalking into the galley, glowing eyes peering out from dark hoods. They leapt and he fired, watching them slow only slightly with each impact as his blaster bolts burned neatly through them. Then Qate was beside him, leveling her double-barreled carbine at them. A hollow _boom_ echoed through the room and the two creatures were knocked sprawling. Still not dead, the began to pull themselves back to their feet but Buruk thrust a gauntlet forward and activated his flamethrower. Fire washed over them and they thrashed about on the deck, kicking and screaming, before finally lying still. There was no mistaking what the berserkers were.

They were Bando Gora.

###

Maalku met up with Flower and Nexu outside the engine room. He carried his shockprod staff across his shoulders, two twenty-liter duraluminum cans full of starship fuel weighing down each end. "Tortoise has ordered us to go," he buzzed.

The Twi'lek woman tossed the last of her tools into a duffel bag and shouldered it, swaying slightly as she settled its weight. "We heard," she said through gritted teeth. "Had to get the last of the parts we need." The boy hefted a bag of his own and trotted over to Maalku.

"What's going on?" he asked, looking both ways down the corridor. "We heard blaster fire."

"Maalku does not know," the Gand answered him, leading the way forward. Fuel sloshed and gurgled inside the cans with each step, the weight of the liquid slowing him down. "But I suggest we make haste."

Just then, something tumbled into the corridor from a grate in the ceiling. Flower yelped and jerked away, nearly losing her balance and landing on her backside. It was humanoid, a dark hood enveloping its head and concealing its features as it lay sprawled facedown on the deck. Then it jerked its head up, fixing them with glowing red eyes, and squalled a high pitched cry that stung Maalku's tympanic membranes. It leapt to its feet, loping toward them with unbelievable speed.

Reflexively, the Gand dropped the fuel cans from his staff and spun the weapon, smashing the butt end against the creature's temple. It crashed sideways, slamming into the bulkhead but was back up an instant later, whooping and snarling. Maalku jabbed it in the chest with the forked end of his staff and triggered the shockprods. Lightning arced between the prongs, and the creature collapsed, jerking. Maalku breathed a sigh of relief, only to look on in horror as it began to bring itself upright again. Flower stepped forward and shot the thing, several times, until it finally stopped moving.

An ululating cry echoed down the corridor behind them, drawing their attention. "Go," Maalku snapped, urging the others forward. Hefting the fuel cans, he brought up the rear, watching for their unseen pursuers.

###

More of the Bando Gora cultists crawled out of the woodwork, assaulting Buruk and Qate at ever turn. After only the second engagement, their blasters were drained and they had to rely on the limited weaponry built into their _beskar'gam_.

Buruk turned a corner and a massive weight suddenly plowed into him from behind him, knocking him prostrate. Hands slammed into the back of his helmet and tore at his armor plates, trying to rip him free of its protection. Then, just as suddenly, the weight disappeared. Buruk rolled over onto his back in time to see Qate reeling her whipcord in, pulling one of the berserkers with it, then fire her dart launcher point blank into the creature's throat. It spasmed twice, then fell still; her poison was quick.

They regrouped with Lynli and the others on the way to the airlock. "What kept you?" he asked sarcastically as they hustled alongside each other.

"Ran into some old friends," Lynli answered with equal sarcasm. "Really gracious; didn't want us to go."

"Yeah, same here. Get the goods?"

She patted the duffel bag riding her hip. "Plenty of spare parts," she assured him.

"Good, I'd hate to make another trip all the way out here," he said as they piled into the airlock, pressing shoulder to shoulder in the confined space. He reached out and smacked the control panel to seal the lock.

The door ground shut painfully slowly as a group of the cultists charged toward them. Buruk realized that at least one would make it into the airlock before the door sealed and pushed his way forward.

"What are you doing?" Lynli demanded.

Ignoring her, Buruk said, "Maalku, lose one of the fuel cans."

The Gand dropped his burden, taking one of the duraluminum cans and hurling it through the closing portal at the oncoming Bando Gora. Buruk raised his arm and launched a stream of fire that engulfed the can and the nearest berserkers. It burst, showering the Bando Gora with ignited fuel and blaster them off their feet. The airlock closed and they were safe.

###

As the _Cuun'yaim_ got underway, Buruk and the others watched the drifting Action VI transport through the viewport. The Bando Gora must have attacked the ship after the pirates had disabled it, prompting the pirates to turn tail and run and leave the people aboard the transport helpless. It wasn't a pleasant thought.

"All right," Morran said, his voice dead as he looked up from the control panel at the Action VI. "Locked in." During his time piloting a consular ship for the Judicials, he'd heard Jedi talk about a netherworld of the Force, some kind of afterlife they believed in where a person's consciousness was subsumed into a collective state of being. Whether it was true or not, he hoped the people aboard that ship would find some kind of peace.

The Mandalorian nodded and stepped forward. He'd decided that as the ship's captain, it was his job to do the deed. He leaned over Morran's shoulder and stabbed his finger down on the firing button. A proton torpedo streaked out from under the _Cuun'yaim_'s bow on a tail of blue fire, impacted solidly with the Action VI's hull amidships, and violently tore through the vessel.

As they watched its death throes, he thought about the crew on that lost ship; men, women… children. The Bando Gora had slaughtered them like cattle in their mad crusade to convert the nonbelievers of the galaxy. They made it clear to Morran that there was a distinct difference between the "known galaxy" and the "civilized galaxy."


	34. Bittersweet Symphony Part 1

Trydur Zabth sat cross-legged before his Padawan, his eyes closed. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he looked at her. A Zabrak like him, Sarule Narbrea was young, only sixteen, with wide, honest eyes that broadcast her innocence to all whose gaze she met. _Did my eyes have that same look_, he wondered, regarding her evenly. _Was I so innocent before crafting my first lightsaber and learning to kill with it?_

Aloud, he said, "You have finished constructing your lightsaber. This has long been an important milestone in the training of Jedi Knights." His brow furrowed as he let a stern expression take over his features. "You are no longer merely a scholar; you are about to embark upon the path of the true warrior."

Sarule mimicked his posture, legs crossed, sitting on the hard stone floor of the crystal cave, faintly illuminated by the inner glow of the surrounding gemstones growing from the cave walls. They'd come to Chandrila for its crystals, different from the Adegan and Ilum varieties; some in the Order questioned this but it was important to Zabth that a lightsaber reflect the individuality of its wielder in all its aspects, not just the design of the hilt, which was something you just couldn't get from the Temple's standard fare. He'd shrugged off his critics by telling himself they did not fully understand or embrace the true warrior spirit the Jedi were meant to embody, merely going through the motions of protocol demanded of the title bestowed upon them by virtue of their birth.

The symbol of the Jedi Order—that was the euphemism many Jedi liked to throw around, but Zabth did not fall for such pleasant fictions; the lightsaber was a weapon, plain and simple, and its purpose was to take life in the quickest, most efficient manner possible. Never in his life had he drawn it with any other intention and he would ensure his Padawan would do likewise.

"The Jedi are the guardians of freedom and justice," he continued mildly. "To that end, your real training begins now."

###

Lynli was impressed as she looked around the dining room of _Chateau Cascade_. Tables draped with white cloths and surrounded by ornately carved wooden—not plas, but _wooden_—chairs filled the space while a string trio played softly in the corner, a marked difference to the jizz wailers that overwhelmed all attempts at conversation she was used to. To top it all off, on the opposite wall from the orchestra was a miniature, artificial waterfall trickling down the stone façade into a reflecting pool. Somehow, Mulokhai had gotten them into the classiest restaurant in Bestine, Tatooine's thriving capital city.

Across from the violet-skinned Twi'lek sat Buruk, her partner in both the business and, she hoped, romantic sense. To her great relief, he'd dispensed with his Mandalorian armor and dressed himself in his finest attire for the meeting with their Toydarian middleman—which was to say he still appeared shabby and unkempt with his scarred features, battered workman's clothes, and thick red braid tossed jauntily around his neck like a scarf.

Lynli had herself dressed more conservatively than was normal for her; a high-backed halter-top made of shiny black lizard hide, a knee-length skirt in burgundy shimmersilk, and a pair of black pumps completed her outfit. This wasn't the atmosphere to display the amount of skin most associated with her species.

"Can you believe how much they're charging for the water?" Buruk murmured, putting down the menu. "Desert planet or not, that's just outrageous."

"It's imported," Lynli replied evenly. "Not the local moisture farm stuff you'll find in Mos Eisley's cantinas."

He made a face and went back to perusing the menu.

"Besides," she added, playfully pinching his hand, "Mulokhai chose the meeting spot; he should pick up the bill."

Buruk snorted and looked up at her, grabbing her pinching hand and immobilizing it by interlacing their fingers. "You obviously don't know Toydarians that well." Then, belying his complaints, he smiled.

For a moment, they just looked at each other, content to be together some place nice where they wouldn't get shot at or beaten senseless. _This is what every day should be like_, Lynli thought. _The _manda_ knows we've earned it._

That thought surprised her. She'd been bumming around the galaxy with Buruk for nearly two years now and had picked up a number of his habits—curse words, mostly—and it seemed that now even the _manda_ was starting to replace references to the Force in her subconscious. It just went to show how much she was letting him in. She smiled at him and curled her lekku invitingly.

Then the moment was broken by a sullen-faced Mon Calamari waiter standing beside the table with a wine bottle and two glasses atop a serving platter. "May I interest you gentlebeings in a glass of the Fifty-Nine Brentaalian Diamond?"

To her surprise, the Mandalorian grinned. "Sure," he said, glancing up at the salmon-skinned waiter. "And leave the bottle."

The Mon Calamari cleared his throat, setting his chin barbells to twitching. "Sir, the Fifty-Nine is a hundred and seventy five credits per bottle."

"That'll be fine, pal," Buruk insisted.

Shrugging, the waiter placed a glass before each of them, poured a small amount of the white wine into each, then placed the bottle within Buruk's reach. "I'll return with a chiller," he said as he departed.

Eventually Mulokhai flapped his way over to their table, his tiny wings beating furiously to keep him aloft, and Buruk moved over to sit beside Lynli. "Ah, Captain Kelborn, mah bukee!" he said boisterously, throwing his spindly arms around the Mandalorian and giving him a big hug, slapping him on the back several times. Then, sitting in an empty chair across from them, he added, "I hope I haven't kept you vaiting too long."

"No problem," Buruk told the Toydarian. "How's Zashiah?"

Mulokhai chuckled, laying three-fingered hands across his bulbous stomach. "He's at shool right now. Such a shmart boy; he'll make a fine businessman someday!"

"Glad to hear it," Buruk replied, sounding interested. "So, what's with the luxurious meeting place? I doubt you called us here just to chat about your grandson's promising future."

"Vell, I vanted you to know who it vas you vere doing thees job for—haf you by chance eaten yet? The braised nerf is especially vonderful!"

The waiter returned and took their orders. Mulokhai waited for him to go before continuing. "I own a beet of shtock in thees restaurant and the head chef is a good friend of mine," he explained, scratching at the bushy grey beard that puffed out from his chin. "Vun day he says to me, 'Mulokhai, I vish to create a dish the likes of vhich Tatooine has never tasted before! I vould very much like to serve sqvall but the Chandrilans have outlawed their exportation, please help me, my friend.'"

Buruk stiffened at the mention of Chandrila; one of the Jedi responsible for the massacre at Galidraan was supposed to be there. Lynli reached under the table to take his hand and felt some of the tension leave him. "So you want us to go there and smuggle out a nest of squalls," she nodded. "Presumably enough for initial preparation _and_ a renewable breeding stock."

Mulokhai's violet eyes lit up and his smile widened, showing his dianogan tea-stained tusks. "Don't ever let thees one go, Kelborn, she's perfect!" he declared.

Buruk forced a smile that almost managed to appear perfectly casual. "Yeah, I'm starting to see that."

"That's right," the Toydarian continued, switching back to the subject at hand. "They run all around the cities getting in the vay of traffic and generally being a nuisance but the natives von't do anything about it and made it illegal to trap them, so you'll haf to steek to the vilderness areas."

"We'll need fuel," Buruk told him. "We're running on fumes thanks to some bad luck on that run out to Jabiim a while back."

"Yah, yah, yah," Mulokhai said, waving a dismissive hand as the waiter returned with soup and salads. "It vill be taken care of. I already had Dram credit a load of fuel to your account."

"Generous of you," Lynli remarked around a mouthful of leafy greens.

Eventually the dinner wound down and Mulokhai excused himself. To Lynli's surprise, Buruk suggested they order dessert. Well, if he wanted to treat her like a queen for once, she wasn't going to turn him down. She knew that as soon as they got back to the ship and under way, it'd be back to business as usual between them.

After finishing a slice of air cake each, Buruk finished the last of the wine and looked up at Lynli with a sigh. "Well," he said.

"Well," she replied knowingly.

"On three?" he asked.

"Aye-aye, Cap'n."

"One… two…" On three, they leapt to their feet and ran for the door.

##3

Several days later, the _Cuun'yaim_ appeared in the Chandrila system. Through the wispy cloud cover, Buruk could see two large, green continents dotted with seas springing up from the world ocean that spread across much of the planet's surface. Their destination was the city of Hanna, on the shore of the Silver Sea, a metropolis that thrived, though not at the expense of the environment. The surrounding balmgrass plains were as verdant as they were anywhere else on the planet and the waters of the bay remained crystal clear, affording him a view of schools of fish darting about in massive formations just beneath the surface as they approached the spaceport.

It wasn't long before the control tower contacted them and flashed the docking fee across the control panel. Buruk frowned at the figure; as usual, it would cut deeply into everyone's share of the job's payoff, keeping them all in a perpetual state of subsistence living.

Once they'd cleared customs, they rented an airspeeder from the spaceport; Lynli made short work of the rental company's tracking unit, so as to keep them ignorant of just where it was they'd be taking it. It wouldn't do to have the authorities know they were out in the woods poaching squalls.

Buruk could feel the crew's stares as he piloted the airspeeder out of Hanna, knowing it surprised each of them that he hadn't simply rushed off in full _beskar'gam_ to find the Jedi Trydur Zabth, wherever he was. _Well_, he thought wryly, _sometimes I surprise even myself._ To be honest, he wasn't sure why, but it just seemed that doing the job he'd been hired to do before setting out on any personal business was the right thing to do.

Of course that didn't mean he _liked_ it.

###

"Again," Zabth barked. He stood off to the side of the cave, near the crystal-studded wall, with his arms hidden within the voluminous sleeves of his cloak. His shadow, cast by the illuminating crystals, stretched across the cavern floor where his apprentice stood holding her lightsaber out in a defensive posture.

Sarule raised the weapon high, bringing the blade parallel to the floor in a sweeping block, pivoted, slashed downward at a diagonal, twisted her wrists, and brought the blade back up vertically. She spun, slashed downward, stepped forward, thrusting with the tip of the lightsaber, reversed her grip and stabbed back at the air behind her, then swept the weapon out in front of her again, falling into a crouch as she spun around, returning the lightsaber to a standard grip in her hands.

"Again," Zabth ordered again. He would drill her until the kata became second nature, so that she could perform it at a moment's notice. "When you let your body take care of your lightsaber for you, you free your mind to call upon the Force," he'd explained to her.

Suddenly the world disappeared as blackness engulfed his vision. Through the Force, he felt anger, hatred, and death, so strongly that, for a moment, he feared it was in the room with them. Then, just as quickly as it had come, the feeling disappeared and his vision returned. He looked up into the face of his Padawan, worry lining her face.

"Are you all right, Master?" Sarule asked, clutching the sleeve of his cloak.

Zabth realized he'd sunk to his knees then. A little shakily, he stood, breathing heavily. "Evil is coming," he whispered. Calling upon the Force, he calmed his two hearts, slowing their synchronous pulse. "Evil is coming," he repeated.

###

"Still no word from Kralo or Zabth!" Nurt Ulasac hissed, lekku writhing erratically.

Kit-Sun Wolfgana could feel the anxiety and fear radiating from the Jedi Master like heat from an unshielded blast furnace as he paced back and forth across a meditation pavilion in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. He felt tempted to make a pointed quip about his friend's technique but decided against it; his humor was wearing thin on Ulasac and was more likely to earn his ire than ease his tension at the moment. That was why the Council had partnered them together, after all; so Kit-Sun could monitor and assuage the master's festering hatred for the Mandalorians.

A consequence of that partnership had been Ulasac's prohibition from taking any part in investigating the Mandalorian that had broken into the Jedi Archives, made off with information on the survivors of Galidraan, and had apparently been engaging in a campaign of murder against those who'd slaughtered his people there.

_Perhaps some wisdom from one of his forebears will ease his mind_, Kit-Sun thought while stroking his auburn beard. Aloud, he said, "The ancient Jedi Tott Doneeta once said, 'It is always folly to run from a heat storm. Even a Jedi has no way to fight it.'"

Halfway through the quotation, he realized his mistake but couldn't stop himself. Ulasac turned and glared daggers at him and the younger Jedi lowered his gaze to his boots, shuffling in place like a chastised youngling. One of the Mandalorian's victims had been Shoaneb Zaruul, consumed in one of Ryloth's heat storms; he remembered the clearly the agony of her death, had felt it through the Force after handling her lightsaber. Comparing their menace to one had struck an ill chord in the Twi'lek.

"Two Jedi are dead already," he said, enunciating each word with slow, icy precision, "and two are out of contact. Kralo was supposed to go to Chandrila, warn Zabth, and return to the Temple; we can only assume he has fallen victim to this assassin."

Kit-Sun nodded gravely as Ulasac resumed pacing. His boots scuffed over the earthen floor of the pavilion, turning the soil over with each step. In the distance, he could hear water trickling over stones in one the decorative streams that gave the garden its name. Birds and butterflies fluttered through the air, singing from the branches of trees and bushes brought from half the galaxy away. Yet Kit-Sun could feel the dark emotions from the elder Jedi turn back the peace offered by their surroundings.

"I must go to Chandrila myself," Ulasac declared.

Kit-Sun looked up, met his gaze. His eyes were hard, jaw set in a grim line, and he projected a sense of determination through the Force. Kit-Sun's throat tightened. "The Council has forbidden it," he warned.

"You would turn me over to them?" Ulasac asked, his expression softening. "They aren't investigating, Kit-Sun; they're ignoring the problem, hoping it'll just go away." His brows lifted slightly. "Oh, to be sure, it will… once he's killed us all. Search your feelings; you know it to be true."

He had to admit that he hadn't seen much in the way of progress in the Order's official investigation of the Archives break-in. But to go against the will of the Council… it was unthinkable.

Frowning, the Twi'lek sighed heavily. "I see," he said, taking the other's silence for his answer, and Kit-Sun could sense the betrayal he felt. "If you will not stand with me in defense of your fellow Jedi, then I will go to Chandrila alone." He turned and began striding away.

"There must be another way," Kit-Sun called to his back.

"The Council has made your decision for you, my friend," Ulasac replied ruefully, turning back to face him.

For an instant, Kit-Sun thought of the tiles covering the floor outside the Council chamber and of his musings that if any were to shift from their alignment, they would be swiftly hammered back into place. He hoped to avoid the heavy end of the hammer but was it worth the lives of Jedi?

No, he decided. It wasn't. Standing, he gave a sigh of resignation and said, "Very well, Master. Lead and I shall follow."

_TO BE CONTINUED…_


	35. Bittersweet Symphony Part 2

Ganhuff Riscan's skin prickled as a thousand millipedes crawled over his body, their millions of feet scrabbling, scuttling, and scratching across arms, legs, and torso. From his fingertips to his toenails, he felt them creeping along, imagining the nerve-jangling violin plucking that accompanied up-close footage of insects in most holo-documentaries. He held his body perfectly still, eyes darting madly to try to get a look at them. He sensed one moving up his neck, standing his hair on end, and crawl circuitously over his ear and into the canal. Ganhuff thrashed, screaming at the top of his lungs, and found to his horror that he couldn't move.

Then, for an all-too-brief moment, reality pierced through the fog of tactile hallucinations. He lay in his bunk, restrained at hands and feet, suffering through spice withdrawal. Qate and Maalku had done it. At first, in the early stages of his "treatment", they'd simply confiscated his supply of drugs, refusing his requests for them. However, as his condition deteriorated, he'd become desperate and they'd had to resort to more aggressive measures to keep him at bay; Qate had even punched him once, blackening his eye. The Zabrak certainly lacked the bedside manner of a traditional therapist.

Raising his head off the pillow just a little, he called out to the corridor, trying to keep his voice from cracking. "Qate… I-I need a hit…" No answer and he feared she'd left him. Somehow the thought of being abandoned tore at his heart more than the absence of glitterstim. "Just a low dosage," he begged, letting his head fall back. A galaxy exploded somewhere in his brain, sending waves of nausea surging through him and he wondered why they'd left him on his back. _She probably wants me to drown in my own vomit_, he thought bitterly."Something to dull the pain some."

Not even the droid Wally answered his pleas. His vision blurred as tears filled his eyes and he cursed his wretched, deplorable solitude. Then he was reminded of a quotation he'd heard in university, a passage from classic literature; _whom the gods destroy, they first drive mad._

###

In the corridor outside Ganhuff's quarters, Qate fought back the urge to answer his cries. It was a maternal response, one she'd gone through before with her daughter, Meshurok. They'd been in the middle of the woods, flushing out a nest of squalls, when he'd just collapsed and started convulsing. She and Maalku had carried him back to the _Cuun'yaim_, docked in the city of Hanna, and tied him down to his bunk so he couldn't hurt himself.

Behind her, Maalku heaved a sigh that sounded like a buzzing burst of static from his breath mask's vocoder. "There must be something we can do for him," she said, keeping her voice low as she rubbed her forehead.

"Maalku is not a doctor," the Gand replied mournfully, his use of third person indicating his shame at being unable to help his friend. As Qate understood it, he'd first come aboard the ship to collect the bounty on Ganhuff's head and the two had formed a strange camaraderie since then.

"Well he is," she insisted, turning to Maalku and jabbing a thumb behind her at the door. "He's got a medical books, right? There must be something in there on treating withdrawal."

Maalku nodded his grey-green head. "Yes, but the treatments are sophisticated beyond our means. They require special drugs to sedate him, flush his system, and maintain his sanity."

Qate nodded resolutely, stepping past him toward the common room. "Then we'll just have to get some."

"The black market?" Maalku buzzed, following the Zabrak out of the aft dormitory.

"Not a chance," she answered with a derisive snort. "They'd be so cut up and laced with other narcotics, we may as well stuff a kilo of spice right down his throat. No, we'll go right to the source."

She paused beside Wally, the squat little utility droid, where he sat running a new power cable to the medical suite's antisepsis field generator and tapped him on his disk-shaped head. It spun around and he warbled a question at her. Somehow, he always managed to appear hostile to anyone other than Lynli.

"Wally, I need you to tap into the city's central computer," Qate answered, ignoring the droid's hostility. "I need pharmaceutical inventories, security system layouts, and floor plans for the primary hospital."

"You believe we can break in and steal what we need to ease his pain without getting caught?" Maalku asked from behind her.

"Not every infiltration I do involves a loud bang," she replied sarcastically.

Wally blatted something uncomplimentary at her and turned back to his wiring. _What a time not to have a restraining bolt_, Qate thought, narrowing her eyes at him. "Hey!" she said sharply, kicking the droid in the rear chassis. "I'm talking to you, you nearsighted scrap pile." Then, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, she added, "We'll pay you."

Wally's head spun around again and he blew an electronic raspberry at her before returning to his work, leaving Qate grinding her teeth in frustration.

###

Buruk pulled back one of the panels lining the interior of the ship's cargo hold and moved it aside so Lynli could start shoving crates of captured squalls into the hidden compartment. One of the things that made _Firefly_-class transport ships so popular among smugglers was their troublesome little nooks—troublesome, that was, for the authorities.

"These things are so cute," Lynli said cheerfully as she back out of the alcove and Aerek pushed another inside. "I love their big floppy ears. We should keep one for ourselves. What do you want to name him, Aerek?"

"How about Stew?" the boy called from inside the open compartment. Buruk barked a laugh.

"That's not funny," the Twi'lek frowned.

But Buruk kept chuckling as he opened more of the hold's hidden smuggling areas to be loaded; squalls were illegal to traffic on or off Chandrila, so leaving them out in the open in the ship's cargo hold was out of the question.

As they were packing the adorably delicious lagomorphs away, Maalku stepped into the cargo hold from the aft common area. "Well?" Buruk asked, his question apparent.

"He's suffering," she answered simply. "Doesn't know where he is half the time; alternates between screaming and sobbing fits." Qate fixed him with a hard stare. "It could kill him."

"Anything you can do?" Lynli asked.

"Plenty, but your _shabla_ little droid won't cooperate."

Lynli raised an eyebrow, curious how Qate intended to use Wally to help the doctor. "I'll tell him to do as you say." She followed the Zabrak back to the common area, leaving Buruk, Aerek, and Morran to finish packing away the contraband critters.

Within an hour, the covers were back in place and the hold was empty; not even the squall's constant squeaking could be heard through the bulkheads, much to Buruk's relief. They may have been cute, but so many of them making so much noise would grate against anyone's nerves.

The Mandalorian turned to his partner, who had returned just a few minutes after leaving the hold. "Well," he sighed, looking Lynli in her gold eyes. "It's that time." He referred to the Jedi somewhere on Chandrila, one of the Jedi that had perpetrated the massacre at Galidraan.

The Jedi he'd come here to kill.

"I guess so," Lynli replied hesitantly, her lekku twitching. He could see in her face she wanted to ask him to stay. Instead, she said, "I'll keep an eye on Aerek while you're gone."

"Thanks." It seemed so trite a statement but what else was there to say? _Nothing, that's what_, he told himself as he climbed the stairway to his quarters to prep his gear.

###

Sarule stood in the center of a stone bridge that stretched across the yawning underground crevasse that formed the crystal cave on Chandrila. Centuries ago, the Jedi had excavated the tunnel network that twisted and turned like the path of some mad worm through the rock and many such bridges, at varying heights relative to her, could be seen to either side of the one on which she now stood facing a quartet of training remotes.

The little silver spheres bobbed and wove through the air around her, spinning, pausing, zipping around at random, as the blindfolded Padawan tracked their movement using nothing but the Force. One spat a burst of stinger bolts at her back and, using an economy of movement, she placed the orange blade of her lightsaber between herself and the attack, intercepting each shot. Pivoting to her right, she swung her blade back around, in time to catch a series of shots from one of the other remotes.

Master Zabth watched as they continued to orbit her like the electrons of an atom. While his expression could have been carved from the very stone that surrounded them, he had to admit to himself that Sarule held great promise as a swordsman. Whatever the intention of the evil he'd sensed, he would do everything in his power to ensure she would have a future to fulfill that potential.

Turning his attention to the sheet of 4limsy before him, Zabth took his stylus in hand and, opening himself to the Force, began to trace the intricate letters of Naboo's formal Futhark script. He enjoyed practicing calligraphy; it taught him to focus his mind and limbered his wrist, thus enhancing technique with the lightsaber. While he didn't measure up to Shoaneb Zaruul's elegance or Nurt Ulasac's raw power, the Zabrak maintained that he struck a proper balance between form and function, as a warrior should.

As Zabth focused, he turned his attention outward, to the world around him, and tried to locate the evil he sensed coming for him.

###

As Qate chimney-walked her way up the smooth walls of one of Hanna General Hospital's many waste disposal chutes, she resolved to send a nasty letter to the company that manufactured her breath mask; it did a poor job of filtering out the smell of rotting food, soiled bedding, and specimen cups that wafted up from the facility's backup incinerator. Given time, they could have devised a way in that would have been far less offensive to the senses, but with Buruk intending to commit a murder, time was a luxury they didn't have.

Farther down the chute, Maalku grunted, "We lead a charmed life." Even through the vocoder, Qate could hear the sarcasm in his voice. Whether his breath mask did a better job of filtering out the smell or not, it seemed he wasn't fond of the idea of climbing up through the residual waste that surely clung to the chute's walls.

The Zabrak had to agree with him; she'd have much preferred to have been wearing her armor, but there was no room for the bulky suit in the confined space. _Besides_, she added, shifting her _shebs_ up the shaft, beskar'gam _ain't exactly inconspicuous at the best of times._ A Mandalorian warrior loaded for wampa and crawling out of a waste chute would raise more than a few eyebrows, that was certain.

They'd chosen the backup system on the likelihood that no one would throw a fit if it inexplicably went offline for a few scant minutes, which it did thanks to Wally's slicing of the hospital's central computer. Now the droid was busy reassigning patients' rooms to route as many people away from their point of entry as possible and creating false work orders to repair the suddenly malfunctioning security cameras there. Except for the stench, the plan was off to a good start.

At last, Qate reached the top of the shaft. Reaching into a pocket, she withdrew a small plasma cutter and set to work, carefully slicing open a section of the chute cover large enough to accommodate Maalku's stocky frame. Then she lifted herself up and out into the hallway, pulling off her mask and taking a deep breath of fresh, clean air.

Turning back to help the Gand, she said, "Let's go."

###

_This place is huge_, Buruk thought, stepping out of the narrow tunnel and surveying the underground crevasse. _It must go on for kilometers…_ It stretched beyond sight in all directions save up; a ceiling of rock hung over him, encrusted with glowing crystals that lit the massive chamber with a faint bluish aura. He could see stone bridges spanning the gorge and statues of robed Jedi holding more of the glowing crystals like streetlamps. He strode across the bridge before him, doing his best to keep his footsteps from echoing, to another tunnel with unfamiliar glyphs carved above its arched mouth. Somewhere in this maze, the Jedi waited.

Silently, Buruk began burying his thoughts beneath a series of random additions and subtractions, counting sabacc cards in his head to keep the mind invaders from detecting him. _The three of staves and the ten of cups gives positives thirteen. The Queen of Air and Darkness and the commander of coins gives positive ten. Demise and the ace of flasks gives positive two._ It was a good trick, one that had put his victims at a disadvantage on several occasions.

He made his way through several tunnels and caverns branching off from each other that all eventually wound their way back to the underground canyon, their path crossing to the other side by way of one of the stone bridges. Some of the larger chambers he came across contained deactivated droids standing with shoulders slumped against the walls. Several smaller chambers were filled with workbenches and tools for cutting gemstones, others with shelves of holobooks on subjects ranging from crystal shaping and lightsaber construction, to the seven classic lightsaber combat forms. All very interesting, he was sure, but not what he'd come for.

A distinctive _snap-hiss_ to his right caught Buruk's attention. Snapping his head around, he spotted the glowing green blade but, to his surprise, its wielder wasn't the Zabrak he'd expected to find waiting in the shadows. One of the droids stepped forward from its place against the wall, holding the weapon in a traditional sword-fighting stance.

Buruk snapped up his blaster rifle and fired. With reflexes only droids and Jedi possessed, the automaton swatted his shots away with the glowing blade and took several quick steps forward, closing the distance between them, while three of his fellows still at the wall stood erect and ignited lightsabers of their own, each a different color of the visible spectrum.

Shab, the Mandalorian thought, snapping off several more shots, mixing up his aim points, and backpedaling away from the training droids. _Beskar_ armor or not, letting them surround him would just be stupid. Far worse was the implication of their activation; it meant that the Jedi knew Buruk was coming and was prepared to fight. _Sure would be nice if I had some _shabla_ ion grenades_, he thought bitterly, cursing his own failure to plan for such a contingency.

The training droids fanned out, their lightsabers humming like piranha beetles and just as deadly as they batted away his shots. At least they didn't have to Force on their side to send them right back at him. Buruk suddenly dropped the barrel of his blaster, shooting out the lead droid's foot. It toppled forward and he finished it off with a shot to the head while it was down.

The remaining three continued to advance on him, dancing about gracefully with their weapons in a manner that belied that fact that they were machines. Slowly, they pushed him back onto one of the bridges that stretched across the yawning chasm. His blasterfire echoed in the huge enclosed space; if the Jedi hadn't known he was here already, he did now.

The bridge actually worked to Buruk's advantage, forcing the droids to line up single file and preventing them from surrounding him. Of course, he should have just shot himself and saved them the trouble for such thinking. No sooner had the smug smile touched his lips beneath his helmet, than it died as the lead droid leapt into the air, somersaulted over his head, and landed behind him on mechanical legs equipped with sophisticated jump servos. _Of course they'd want their training droids to mimic their own abilities_, Buruk berated himself.

With the enemy on either side of him now, the Mandalorian saw no other option but retreat. Dropping a concussion grenade, he touched his fingers to the brow of his helmet in mock salute and stepped off the bridge. One of the droids tried to leap after him, its metal fingers groping the plume of exhaust left in his jetpack's wake, and tumbled out of sight toward the bottom while the other two were caught in the explosion which ripped a good-sized chunk out of the stone bridge, raining their falling companion with debris.

###

Passing a recovery room, Qate reached out and snatched a tackily arranged bouquet of flowers with a holocard that read "Get well soon." The cliché gift had the double advantage of making her look like she was there to visit someone and giving her something to hold in front of her chest, hiding the fact that she didn't have a visitor's badge. No one had stopped her or Maalku to question them on it yet, but like a blaster, it was better to have the camouflage and not need it than need it and not have it.

A turbolift had carried them up to the twelfth floor where Wally's schematics said they'd find pharmaceutical storage. They made their way through the bland, cream-colored halls, passing the occasional janitor or lost geriatric on a walker that paid them no mind.

"Got any insights?" she muttered to the Gand.

"None, Shepherd," he replied evenly. "I have nothing to share."

Well, _that_ was a double-edged sword if ever Qate heard one. Sensing no danger and remaining ignorant of danger were two entirely different things and the distinction could very well bite them in the _shebs_.

And it did.

As they rounded a corner, Qate spotted the storage room they were looking for and checked her chrono. They were right on schedule with Wally, who would deactivate the lock in another thirty seconds. Stepping up to the door, a barely audible click came from the mechanism. Qate keyed the door open and stepped inside.

And that's when the alarm went off.

###

The droids had thrown the intruder off balance. Zabth and Sarule watched the battle unfold from a safe distance. The Jedi Master found to his dismay that he recognized the man's armor as that of the Mandalorians. He'd thought those warriors extinct, wiped out to the last man on Galidraan; after all, he'd participated in the slaughter, cutting down no less than twenty-three of them. Perhaps this wasn't a Mandalorian but merely a man who hoped to capitalize on their fierce reputation by wearing their armor; such a practice wasn't unheard of, after all, and it wasn't as though the Mandalorians had a monopoly on fighting prowess.

Beside him, he could feel his Padawan's tension. "Calm yourself," he said evenly. "You must be at peace with the Force if you are to call upon it in battle."

"I've heard stories," she said, "about the Mandalorians." So, she'd recognized the armor too. "About their service to the dark side and hatred of the Jedi."

"You've heard wrong," he told her. "They did not hate the Jedi or serve the dark side of the Force; circumstance and coincidence is all that brought them into conflict with us time and again."

"The histories state otherwise," Sarule insisted and he could sense her anticipation.

"Histories are written by those who perform the slaughter," Zabth replied with a frown. "And slaughter begets slaughter until the accounts of war and conflicts far outweigh those of art, literature, and philosophy." He sighed as the Mandalorian approached, propelled through the air on his jetpack. "Would that I had been a historian," he said, igniting his lightsaber, casting them in a pale green light with the distinctive _snap-hiss_.

As Sarule followed suit, their attacker touched down on the platform before them, landing in a crouch and coming up with his left arm held straight out in front of him. He fired the gauntlet-mounted wrist-rocket at the girl and for a moment, Zabth felt fear well up in him. As he shifted his focus to turn the missile aside with the Force, the Mandalorian sprayed a sheet of blasterfire in his direction.

_TO BE CONTINUED…_


	36. Bittersweet Symphony Part 3

"Why do you hate the Mandalorians, Master?"

The question took Ulasac by surprise, prompting him to look at his companion, the bearded Kiffar Kit-Sun Wolfgana. The Jedi knight looked quizzically at him, head tilted slightly so that his long black hair spilled over one shoulder. He sat across the dining table from Ulasac, a steaming cup of tea resting untouched before him.

"A Jedi does not hate." The Twi'lek's response was immediate and entirely reflexive.

Kit-Sun lifted his teacup, took a moment to breathe in the aromatic steam rising from it, then sipped carefully. Setting it back down on the table, he said, "You have. Ever since Jomel—"

"Must I hate a murderer to pursue him? To pursue justice?" Ulasac demanded, snarling through pointed teeth. Then, aware how he must have looked, the Jedi Master composed himself, his green skin flushing with embarrassment as his cheeks burned.

To his credit, Kit-Sun remained impassive, stirring his tea. "Grief is just as much an attachment as an airspeeder or credits, Master. Until you let it go, the only thing you pursue is revenge. And I pity those innocents that get in your way."

###

The wrist rocket spiraled wildly off course from the Padawan, bringing down pieces of the canyon wall as it detonated, and Buruk brought his blaster rifle to bear on the distracted Jedi, squeezing the trigger. The Padawan, a Zabrak girl in her mid-teens, leaped forward as the staccato stutter of blaster bolts echoed through the enormous underground chamber, deflecting them away from her master.

_Of course it wouldn't be easy_, Buruk grumbled silently, firing his jetpack and triggering his flamethrower as he retreated. Zabth, his Jedi target, was a resourceful one, all right; he whipped off his cloak, throwing it between them and the gout of fire, and pulled the girl aside with a Force-assisted leap in the split second it took to ignite the heavy fabric.

So far, the Jedi Master did exactly what Buruk expected him to do: protect the Padawan, even if it meant leaving himself open. Alighting on a nearby ledge, the Mandalorian stitched his landing spot with blasterfire. Zabth swatted it right back at him and Buruk threw himself from his temporary perch.

A single bolt impacted his chest plate, drawing a wheeze from him and spinning him through the air. A quick burst from his jetpack made sure Buruk landed on solid ground, however. Pulling himself to his feet, he saw the two Jedi splitting up, bounding from ledge to ledge across the canyon toward him. _Trying to make me choose one or the other_, he snorted derisively, reloading a wrist-rocket. _Fine._

He crouched down and slapped the sides of his knees, launching a quartet of tiny rocket darts in the Padawan's direction. More projectiles would mean more for Zabth to focus on. They burst around the Zabrak girl, four blasts that tore the rock from under her. Her master halted his advance, reaching out to her; she froze in mid plummet and Buruk could see the strain on the Jedi's face.

With his attention drawn away from the Mandalorian, Buruk took cover behind one of the ornate statues—just in case Zabth was putting him on—and fired his wrist-rocket. The Jedi hurled his Padawan onto solid ground, somersaulted over the incoming projectile, and rushed forward.

Slashing with his lightsaber, he cleaved through the statue's base, then used the Force to push it on top of the Mandalorian. Buruk tumbled out of the way barely in time to avoid being crushed, ending up on his back looking up at the Jedi. Without hesitating, Zabth pivoted, sidestepped, and thrust the tip of his lightsaber into Buruk's chest plate.

###

"_Osi'kyr!_" Qate demanded as the ear-splitting siren wailed through the controlled substances room, echoing down the hallway.

"They must have equipped the room with a bioscanner," Maalku supplied, anything but helpfully. "And seeing as how we're covered from head to toe in bio-hazardous residue from out little jaunt up the incinerator chute…" He let the explanation hang there, a conclusion unnecessary.

"_Haar'chak_," she growled, jabbing her security blade into the mechanism of the nearest locker. There was no time for subtlety now, they had to get the meds they came for and get out fast.

With a little muscle, she jimmied the locker open and began tossing boxes of drugs at the Gand, not even bothering to read the labels; they'd sort them out later. "Take everything you can carry," she snapped. Maalku stuffed them into the bag he'd brought, as well of several of the pouches on his gun belt until they bulged.

"Give me a boost," Qate said, similarly loaded down. She climbed up on the Gand's shoulders and set to work on the grate in the ceiling, prying it loose with the security blade. Once it was free, she replaced it at a slightly off angle and climbed down. "Okay, come on," she said, shouldering her bag. Police would be converging on the hospital soon and she hoped they'd be taken by the ruse and waste their time trying to find them in the ventilation ducts. Hopefully then they wouldn't think to cordon off the incinerators.

Qate led the way down the corridor back toward the turbolift. Turning a corner, she skidded to a halt with Maalku bumping into her from behind. "Freeze!" a guard shouted, drawing his blaster. They ducked back around the corner before a snapshot kicked sparks and masonry into the air. "Can't go that way," she breathed, shoving the Gand back up the hall.

They broke into a run, boot heels pounding against the ceramic tile flooring. By now the guard would have called in their location and more would be on their way up to cut them off. Qate knew they'd be eager to catch them before the police could arrive; saving face was always high up on the rent-a-cop's priority list.

For a moment her thoughts drifted back to the kidnapping job that had landed her and Buruk together for the first time. Now here she was, making the same _shabla_ mistakes like some _di'kutla nibral_.

As if reading her thoughts, Maalku buzzed behind her, "I hope that Tortoise is faring better than we are."

###

Zabth was distantly aware that his surprise registered on his face. There he stood over his fallen opponent, having driven the tip of his lightsaber into the attacker's chest armor, and it hadn't penetrated even a centimeter. _Impossible!_ his mind shouted at him, even as he leapt away, bringing his weapon back up to a defensive posture. Very few materials in the known galaxy could stand up to a lightsaber blade, and it was even rarer to encounter suits of armor fashioned from them. Perhaps this mysterious assassin was a Mandalorian after all.

Whatever he was, he was back on his feet, pressing forward as he triggered his flamethrower again.

Zabth called on the Force, launching himself into the air before the fiery tongue spitting forth could envelop him. His attacker tracked him with the flame, painting the cavern with a bright orange glow. Absently, the Jedi admired the subtle contrast it made with the bluish haze suffusing the chamber from the various crystal-bearing statues as he flipped onto an empty balcony.

Sarule he could feel approaching, leaping from one stone bridge to another through the underground canyon, making her way around behind the armored warrior. Suddenly, her orange blade appeared with a _snap-hiss_ as it sliced neatly through the hose feeding the Mandalorian's gauntlet. The column of fire abruptly died as pale fuel poured from the severed tube.

The Mandalorian spun as she swept her blade at him again, raising the now useless gauntlet to parry her blow. Sparks showered as energy blade contacted metal. He grabbed her wrist to take control of her weapon hand but she threw him back with the Force. He hit the ground, rolled several paces, and came up in a crouch, drawing the blaster pistols holstered cross draw style at his belt.

To Zabth's dismay, Sarule charged forward. Leaping after her, he drove fear and worry from his mind, calling on the Force to lend him speed.

###

With an effort, Qate kicked in the door to the emergency stairwell. Hospital security had sealed off the turbolifts on their level while the Hanna City Police made their way up the stairs, leaving their only viable avenue for escape the turbolifts on the next floor up.

"Hell of a day," she whispered, listening to the pounding of boots several floors below.

"Agreed," Maalku replied, his vocoder carefully modulated to a lower volume than normal. "Maalku does not like our chances." Then, after a pause, he hazarded, "We would make better time if we ditched the drugs."

"Not on your life," Qate hissed, fighting the urge to mount the stairs two at a time; with his shorter legs, the Gand would surely fall behind if she did. "Ganhuff needs those."

Reaching the next landing up, the Zabrak went to work on the door's locking mechanism with her security blade; as an emergency stairwell, it was normally only accessible under certain circumstances, when the central computer would release its failsafes, and remained locked otherwise. The cacophony of police boots thundered louder as they neared the floor the intruders had been on and Qate estimated they had about thirty seconds before they caught up to them.

Finally, the lock broke and the two thieves bustled through the door, running full tilt for the turbolifts. Qate's breath burned in her chest as she pumped her arms furiously; the police would be right behind them in seconds. At her back, Maalku's own labored breathing could be heard as hisses of static through his breath mask.

They rounded a corner and spotted the turbolifts at the end of the corridor, just past a row of windows the overlooked the picturesque city of Hanna. Below, landspeeders and pedestrians could be seen going about their business, oblivious to the plight of two petty thieves running for their freedom.

Halfway to the lifts, the windows exploded inward, showering them with tiny, smooth-sided safety cubes of transparisteel. Even so, Qate and Maalku ducked reflexively, throwing their arms up over their heads as armored SWAT officers rappelled down through their makeshift entrance. When Qate looked up, she found they were surrounded, staring down the barrels of several primed and ready blaster rifles. Heart aching for Ganhuff, she stood, putting her hands on her head. Maalku did likewise.

###

They were on either side of him now, closing in, and Buruk was running out of options. He backpedaled, still thankful the Padawan hadn't simply thought to lop off his arm when she'd disabled his flamethrower, and fired his blasters.

Zabth batted his shots away easily and the Padawan thrust out her hand; Buruk felt like he'd run full speed into a wall and tumbled backward off the bridge. He fired his whipcord, satisfied that it coiled around her ankle, and dragged her down with him. "Sarule!" he heard Zabth cry.

She screamed as she was dragged over the ledge and Buruk fired. The high-powered blaster bolt struck her in the chest, silencing her. Her body tumbled limply past him as he fired his jetpack, lifting him back up to safety.

###

Zabth stared in shock at the receding form of his Padawan, his heart shattered. He reached out through the Force to touch her but there was nothing; Sarule Narbrea no longer existed. He straightened up from the edge and turned to see her murderer rising up as if from the black pit of Chaos itself to land lightly on his feet several meters away.

He'd failed. Failed to protect her, failed to train her, failed to ensure her the bright future that had been rightly hers. Her death was his doing and guilt rent his spirit asunder. _He will pay_, he thought, glaring at the armored warrior.

Zabth called on the Force to lash out at the Mandalorian, to sunder him in return. It filled him, flowed through him in a torrent like he'd never felt before. He knew it was stained with the dark side but he didn't care; all that mattered at that moment was that the Mandalorian paid for his crime.

Throwing his head back, the Jedi released a vengeful scream, a battle cry of pure killing intent that reverberated off the surrounding stone, echoing not only through the kilometers-long canyon but also through the Force itself.

The Mandalorian staggered back a step and he fired his wrist-rocket. Zabth used the Force to hurl the missile aside with no more effort than as if he'd been swatting a stingfly, stalking forward toward his enemy. He pushed with the Force, sending a wave crashing against his foe that slammed him against a statue. When he tried firing his jetpack to escape, Zabth caught hold of the device, closing his fingers into a fist, crushing it.

The Mandalorian snatched a grenade from his belt, held it up so the Jedi could see it, and ordered, "That's far enough!"

Zabth snapped bones in the man's forearm, forcing him to drop the explosive. Another twitch of the Force sent the grenade skittering harmlessly over the edge of the bridge. He let a smile curl his lip as the warrior screamed, clutching his injured arm to his chest. Reaching out, he closed invisible fingers around the Mandalorian's windpipe, not to cut off his cries of agony, but to immobilize him. Standing before his enemy, Zabth place the tip of his lightsaber blade between the plates protecting the man's chest and abdomen, and thrust forward.

To his surprise, the Mandalorian possessed enough of his senses to grab the Jedi's wrist, immobilizing his weapon. At the same time, a glint of light in the corner of his eye, accompanied by a subsonic buzz caught Zabth's attention. A humming vibroblade ejected from the gauntlet sheathing the man's broken arm, which he thrust into Zabth's neck.

The Zabrak released his hold on the Mandalorian and his lightsaber, staggering back and clutching at his throat. The wounded warrior sank to his knees, the blade in his guts automatically retracting into the hilt and clattering to the floor. Zabth tried to speak but his words came out as nothing more than a wet gurgle while blackness crept fast into his vision.

###

"Need some help," Buruk's voice had wheezed over the comlink. That was all Lynli had needed to hear to order Morran to fly the ship toward her partner's location on the outskirts of Hanna. In typical fashion, he'd gone out alone on the swoop bike to go Jedi hunting.

They found him lying at the mouth of a cave, his left arm bent at an unnatural angle; rushing forward to see if he was still conscious, Lynli found he also had a hole burned in his stomach, an obvious lightsaber wound. "Sithspawn, are you okay?" she demanded.

"Oh yeah, I'm top _6et'se_," he moaned, obviously anything but.

Feeling panic rise up in the form of a lump in her throat, the Twi'lek called up the ramp to his son, who stood staring from the airlock. "Aerek, get a splint!" Then, she and the pilot carried Buruk into the cargo hold where the boy immobilized his father's fractured arm.

"Hospital, now!" she barked at Morran, who's normally slouching posture suddenly went parade ground straight before he turned on his heel and charged up the stairway to the cockpit.

Turning back to Aerek, Lynli softened her voice and said, "Take his _buy'ce_ sweetie, okay?" Aerek nodded and reached up to remove his father's helmet and set it aside.

"Top notch on the field splint, son," Buruk said through gritted teeth, trying to sound warm and fatherly despite the pain in his guts. Aerek forced a smile.

"How do you feel?" Lynli asked seriously, removing his back plate so the body vest could be removed.

"Like I may have torn something open on the way out of the cave," he admitted. "Liver feels like a leaky sieve."

That wasn't good. In fact, Lynli thought that was pretty _shabla_ bad! "Could be worse," she said aloud. She didn't want to scare Aerek any worse than he probably already was; Buruk was the boy's whole life. "Aerek, could you go ask Morran how long until we get to the hospital? I'll finish up with your dad's armor."

When he was gone, Lynli opened Buruk's flightsuit to take a look at the cauterized lightsaber wound. He'd torn it open on one side, all right, and it was slowly bleeding dark venous blood; that was better than she'd feared, at least.

"Where's the doc?" Buruk asked, still gritting his teeth.

"Still restrained his quarters," Lynli answered.

"Qate and Maalku?"

"Breaking into the hospital to steal him some medication."

He cocked an eyebrow at her. "And you're taking me to a crime scene?"

"Do you have any better ideas?" she snapped, swabbing his stomach with disinfectant.

"Nope," he hissed.

###

Hours later, Buruk awoke in a bacta tank, a breath mask fitted snugly over his face so he didn't drown. Even so, he could taste and bitter fluid in the back of his throat, telling him the medics had made him ingest some while he'd been out. He never quite got used to the unpleasant aftertaste, no matter how many times he underwent bacta therapy in his life.

After having his arm placed in a bacta cast, collecting his clothes, and signing his discharge papers, he found Lynli, Morran, and Aerek curled up in seats in the hospital waiting room. He tapped her gently on the shoulder with his good hand. "Hey," he said softly. "I'm back."

Lynli sat up groggily, rubbing sleep from her gold eyes, and yawned. On either side of her, the others stirred. "What'd the doctor say?" she asked, stretching.

"Liver's fine. Arm'll heal in a day or two with the cast on," he answered. As he spoke, Aerek hopped down from his chair and gave him a big, welcoming hug. "Did they ask you any questions?"

Lynli frowned and looked at Morran; Buruk didn't like the way she hesitated. Then she looked guiltily back at him and said, "They wanted to know how you got the burn through your stomach—"

Morran cut her of, dropping his voice low so no one would overhear. "We couldn't tell them it was a lightsaber," he explained. "For obvious reasons. So _I_ did the only thing we could."

Buruk looked at them bewilderedly. "Which was?"

"We told them you were a bounty hunter," Lynli said, but was cut short by the pilot as he took over again.

"I explained that you had caught Ganhuff but he'd shot you with a hand laser he'd had concealed on him."

Buruk's eyebrows shot up as the implication sank in. "They took him?"

She nodded shamefully. "Turned him over to the Judicials based here, along with Qate and Maalku; they're all in Republic custody."

An invisible fist closed around Buruk's heart, like the Force grip Zabth had used on him in the caves. They'd taken his crew. Forcing down the grief, he set his mouth in a grim line and said, "We're getting them back."

###

Ulasac and Kit-Sun didn't even bother to enter the crystal caves. From the mouth, they could sense they were too late, the feelings of anger, hatred, and death swirling about wildly into a palpable miasma that warned them away. Kit-Sun looked down at his boots, feeling his friend quiver in silent fury.

"This is the Council's fault," the Twi'lek hissed. "They're responsible, for all of them."

Kit-Sun returned his gaze to Ulasac, placing a hand on his shoulder. He reached out to touch his friend's mind, to calm him, bring him back to the peace of the Force. "No on is to blame but the one who did the deed," he insisted gently.

Ulasac brushed his hand aside, even as he flung aside the mental influence. "The Council would not act!" he snapped. "They only hindered those of us who would!" His eyes shone with poorly contained anger. "I'm through following in this Mandalorian's wake of violence; we are going to Tarant and we are meeting him head on and I _will_ kill him to avenge Zaruul, Kralo, Zabth, and Jomel."

The knight sighed. He'd been afraid Ulasac would say that. "We will not," he said. "I'm afraid if you insist on doing so, I have no choice but the report your actions to the Council."

"Fine!" the Jedi Master snapped. "Maybe they'll pat you on the head for being a good little dog when you do." He turned and stormed away from his friend, burning with hatred.

Kit-Sun watched him go, shaking his head in dismay.

###

They'd been shackled like animals and herded onto the prison transport bound for Coruscant, along with fifty other passengers and Ganhuff. The doctor had at least been sedated and placed in a straitjacket, more for his own safety than the other prisoners. Qate looked at his still form, buckled into the transport's restraints, and felt a pang of guilt for having failed in her promise to help him; his face seemed peaceful, at least, no longer lost in the feverish dreams that plagued him during his withdrawal.

Beside her, Maalku sat with his three-fingered hands curled in his lap, the translucent membranes closed over his multifaceted eyes. He looked to be at peace too, meditating as always. He'd taken their capture in stride, like everything that happened to them; if he was there, it was because the mists had guided him there. Qate, on the other hand, had to force herself to remain calm. Losing it now would only make things worse.

Around them, the other prisoners—mostly humans, a few Rodians, and one hulking Herglic bound in the same manner as Ganhuff but without the medication—eyed them warily, like hungry predators. Qate returned their stare, injecting enough venom into her gaze to paralyze a rancor.

"A vision…" Maalku buzzed quietly.

She snapped her head around, fixing him with a stare. "What?" she demanded.

"The green tortoise kills the gold tortoise."

###

Buruk's footsteps sounded hollow as he clanged up the boarding ramp into the deserted _Cuun'yaim_. It felt like a crypt, as if he were entering the ghost ship, the _Duska Antilles_, all over again; the only difference here was the ample light and the lack of flesh-eating Bando Gora cultists crawling out of the ductwork to tear him limb from limb.

He took a moment to survey the hold while Morran headed up to the cockpit; he could feel Lynli's and Aerek's eyes on him and looked down at his datapad just to avoid their gaze. What he saw made him sigh in dismay. There, in nice black numerals, was his account's credit balance, having just increased by twenty thousand—ten percent of the doctor's bounty. Still a lot of money, but it felt like he'd betrayed the man. Worse, he knew Lynli felt the same way even though she'd only gone along with it to save Buruk from the Judicials.

So, he resolved, they'd go after them. No matter what it took, no matter where the Republic locked them away, Ganhuff, Qate, and Maalku would be freed. He turned to Lynli to tell her as much when the intercom buzzed. "Buruk," Morran called from the cockpit, "got a message for you."

The Mandalorian grimaced, and made his way up from the hold, leaving his Twi'lek partner to seal the ship. "Mulokhai want to know where his squalls are?" he asked, bracing his hands against the cockpit hatchway.

"Don't know," the pilot confessed, swiveling to face him in his command seat. "It's audio; no voice, just a bunch of random bursts of static." He flicked a switch on the control panel and the message played.

To his surprise, Buruk recognized it as a Mandalorian code called _dadita_. Each series of long and short bursts corresponded to a letter of the Mando alphabet, spelling just six simple words.

_I can help you find Kex._

###

This, ladies and gentlemen, will be what I consider the end of Season 2, heralding my sabbatical from updating this story. It will return in the spring, as will you all, I hope.


	37. Nowhere Man

Rutgar Talon had overplayed the odds. The pit bosses never liked it when you won too much, so when he'd managed to take fifty thousand of the Triple Nova's money playing sabacc, he knew he had to get off Abregado-rae as soon as possible. Nervously, he crammed handfuls of chips into the pockets of his shabby suit, at least three years out of fashion, and half ran from the gaudily lit casino to his room. He was scrawny, out of shape, and even the short dash to the turbolifts left him winded. But he'd made it. He'd gather his belongings, check out of the hotel, and be offworld in a few hours.

The lift doors parted on his floor and he stepped out into the hall and turned right, making his way briskly toward his room, buoyed by his success. It felt good to finally be on top, to be a winner. He'd broken a long slump he been in with tonight's victory. He felt so giddy that he began to whistle.

Talon stopped in front of his door, exactly identical to the ones that stretched down the corridor to either side, save the number plate, and fished around in his pocket for the key card. The lock clicked open after a soft electronic buzz when he slid the card through the reader, and the door hissed open. Automatically, Talon stepped forward into the unlit room—

And collided with something solid in the doorway. Realizing it was a person, he stumbled back a step and found himself face-to-face with a humanoid dressed head to toe in dark green armor. His eyes locked on the figure's helmet, with its impenetrable, black, T-shaped visor. Talon turned to run but something caught his throat and his legs whipped uselessly out from under him. He couldn't breathe and slowly the world went black.

# # #

Kex let the gambler fall limp to the garishly colored carpet and the garrote snapped back into his gauntlet as he knelt down to drag the body into the room. There'd been no sound, no struggle, no witnesses, just as he'd been taught to do. Now it was time for cleanup. The laser saw he'd left in the refresher would make quick work of it; any blood could be rinsed down the shower's drain and the pieces stacked neatly inside the gambler's luggage for disposal. It'd be as if Rutgar Talon had never existed.

Kex was no stranger to this kind of dirty work; any _Mando'ad_ could do it. But the Mandalorians were all gone now. All that remained were a few homesteaders on Concordia, some scattered Death Watch holdouts, and that _hut'uun'la_ bunch from Kalevala. If they represented what a Mandalorian was, then Kex was no longer Mandalorian. He thought he'd made his peace with that.

# # #

Buruk Kelborn thought he'd made his peace with the long road to revenge he'd set himself on when the Mandalorians had all died at Galidraan. He thought he'd finally grown patient, the white-hot rage that seethed through his veins cooled by time and gathering of friends. But when he'd decoded the _dadita_ message that translated to, _I can help you find Kex_, his first impulse was to rush off and find the messenger.

But there was nowhere to go.

The message had been untraceable and whoever sent it hadn't given a location to meet. It was both unnerving and frustrating at the same time because it implied that the messenger was not only a _Mando'ad_, but could track Buruk's movements and would reveal himself at his leisure. Buruk despised cloak and dagger; the uncertainty made him feel vulnerable, cast adrift.

With the toe of his boot, he pushed the retractable refresher into the wall of his quarters aboard the _Cuun'yaim_ and washed his hands. After splashing cold water onto his face, Buruk set his hands on the basin and looked into the small, dirty mirror. His breath blew small droplets from the tip of his nose as he regarded the faded scars crisscrossing his features and he frowned at the long, puckered wound over his right eye.

He owed Kex for that scar, and not because he resented the disfigurement.

Buruk turned and climbed up the ladder out of his bunk, making his way toward the cockpit. "Any messages?" he asked, hoping his anxiety didn't come through in his voice.

"Nope," his pilot answered distractedly. His legs stuck out from under the control panel, which looked like it had been torn apart and was in the process of being rebuilt; wires and circuit boards in all colors of the rainbow splayed all over the place. It was a discomforting sight to someone raised to expect the need for a hasty retreat.

Buruk crossed his arms over his chest and leaned in the hatchway. "Would you even know it if we got one?" he asked dryly. "We've been sitting on this ball nearly a week without a word from Mystery Man."

The pilot, Morran Risant, heaved an exasperated sigh and pushed himself out from under the control panel. "I'm modifying the flight controls," he said, brushing his hands on the thighs of his yellow flightsuit, "not fiddling with the comm system. When I finish, this baby'll be able to outrun and tap-dance around customs frigates on the Kessel Run." He paused to light a cigarette, taking a long drag before blowing the smoke toward the atmo scrubber. "Maybe get back our _friends_ the Judicials pinched," he added pointedly and turned back to his work.

Buruk suppressed a wince. He knew he had to spring Qate, Ganhuff, and Maalku from whatever prison the Republic had dumped them in but the promise of finding Kex just kept nagging at him. The man had to pay for betraying his comrades the way he did.

_How is that any different from leaving your crew to rot?_ a voice inside him asked. He dismissed it and headed aft. If anyone could configure a tramp freighter like the _Cuun'yaim_ to make a prison break, it was a former hunt-saboteur like Risant.

"How's everything?" Buruk asked, poking his head into the engine room.

"Discouraging," Lynli scowled, planting her fists on her hips and turning to face him.

"Malfunction?" he asked curiously. The last thing he needed was another broken component on this ship, especially with them parked out on the backside of beyond.

"Yeah, there's something wrong with a crucial component," she answered.

Buruk squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. "What is it?"

She fixed him with a gold glare and tossed her lekku over her shoulders. "It's the captain. He's had us laid up in the middle of nowhere waiting for some Mystery Man to show up when he swore he'd do everything he could to get our people back."

Buruk's eyebrow twitched. "We don't exactly know where they're being held," he protested.

"Have you bothered to find out?" she snapped, poking him in the chest. Anyone else and he'd have broken their arm, but he let her tread with impunity. "Ganhuff went to prison to keep the doctors from asking embarrassing questions about _you_. You owe them."

Now it was Buruk's turn to snap. "I never asked Qate and Maalku to try robbing that hospital for our glit-biting medic."

"They did it because they cared enough about him! You go on and on about how much you care about your crew, but what do you do when they need you most? You go right back to your Kex shenanigans and leave them to twist in the wind." Her violet face flushed and her lekku writhed furiously. "You don't care about anyone but yourself!"

This time Buruk couldn't suppress the wince. "I care about you," he insisted. "And Aerek."

"Like you cared about Qate?" she demanded. "You let her think you were dead for a whole year until finally you needed something from her. And you haven't had to look at Aerek every time you went off to murder some Jedi, seeing him worry about whether or not you're going to come back alive."

That wasn't entirely true; he'd seen the look on the boy's face every time he'd gone off to settle his vengeance. "He understands why I do that."

Lynli's face screwed up into a look of utter scorn. "No he doesn't. He doesn't understand one bit of it because you haven't bothered to _explain_ it to him. You brought him into your life, then you just selfishly go off to die at the drop of the hat. He's your _son_!"

In the corner, Wally, the ship's utility droid, warbled mournfully into the silence that hung over them.

# # #

It was time to move on.

Kex busied himself packing the small duffel bag that carried his every possession in the world; Mandalorians traveled light. He'd started to feel comfortable working at the casino and that set off all his alarm bells. Now, dressed in plain civilian attire, he carefully wrapped each armor plate in a piece of cloth and shoved it into the bag, along with his knives, pistols, and heavier ordnance, with the exception of the small holdout blaster snugged up under his armpit in a shoulder holster concealed beneath his brown bantha-hide jacket.

Kex had spent the last two years on the run from… well, everybody. The _jetiise_, the Death Watch, even his own best friend. That had been a shock, learning that Buruk was after him; not so much because he hadn't expected to be hunted for what he'd done at Galidraan, but that anyone else had actually survived the Jedi attack. He'd heard they'd been thorough.

His bag packed, Kex knelt down beside the bed in his small one-room flat and made the final preparations for departure. The five kilos of baradium stuffed under the mattress would vaporize the bed and—and it would be assumed—anyone lying in it. He set the charge for twenty minutes, plenty of time to get away, and threw the duffel over his shoulder as he headed out the door.

He had one more thing to collect before moving on to the next system.

# # #

Aerek sat at the dinner table in the _Cuun'yaim_'s galley with a stylus in one hand, frowning over an engine repair manual as he scrawled steadily more legible characters onto a piece of scrap flimsi. As far as teaching aides went, it left a lot to be desired, but it was the best they had on board.

"How's the writing coming along, son?" Buruk asked softly as he entered.

The boy made a noncommittal sound and wrinkled up his nose. He preferred learning to fight and shoot, physical activities, to this academic _osik_. Well, except for history; he _loved_ that. Out loud, he said, "Fine, _buir_."

Buruk nodded, sitting down next to him and putting an arm across his shoulders. "We set down a little closer to civilization, I promise I'll pick you up a proper study program. Full holographics and everything." He gave Aerek's shoulder a squeeze. "Nothing's too good for my boy."

Aerek set down the stylus and looked at his father. "When are Qate, Ganhuff, and Maalku coming back? I miss them."

"Soon," the man promised, giving his shoulder another squeeze. "I was hoping we could talk about what happened to me last week, though. Do you know why I fight the _jetiise_?"

"Because you're Mandalorian," Aerek said matter-of-factly. "You said we've been fighting them for generations."

"That's true, but that's not why I've been going after them. It's because a few years ago, they killed all my friends."

"Why did they do that?"

Buruk shook his head slowly. "I don't know, son. They just did. And one of my friends betrayed me and let it happen."

"Then you should try to find him," Aerek stated.

"I have been, but it's… difficult. _Mando'ade_ are hard to track when they don't want to be found, and things keep sidetracking me."

Aerek's brow furrowed with worry. "Like me?" he asked. He didn't want to be a burden to his father. What would he do if he decided the boy was too much of a distraction?

"Never," Buruk insisted, giving his shoulder another squeeze. "I meant other jobs, but I need to take them because we need the money to keep the ship flying so I can find Kex."

"Then why bother with the Jedi at all? Wouldn't it make more sense just to focus on Kex, who betrayed you? What purpose does going after the Jedi serve?"

Buruk hesitated a few moments. Then he said, "I don't really know. There is no point to it, I guess."

"Don't Mandalorians only do things that serve a purpose? What did you call it? Pragmatism?"

"That's it, son," Buruk replied. Then, scooping the boy up and sitting him in his lap, he said with a smile, "Now why don't you read to me how to fix a swoop engine, hm?"

# # #

Lynli rubbed at her temples and leaned her head back under the running showerhead, letting the hot water sluice over her, rinsing away the day's layer of grit and engine grease. _And frustration_, she thought with a frown as she reached for the loofah and started gently scrubbing her lekku.

Her anger at Buruk had been building for a whole week since the Judicials had pinched their shipmates. It was only a matter of time before it bubbled up to the surface and burst out of her. "It's not like he didn't have it coming," she muttered as she continued to lather herself.

Her shower finished, Lynli stepped out into the refresher to find Buruk waiting in the doorway. The Twi'lek yelped in surprise, grabbing for the nearest towel to cover up her dripping body. "What the hell are you doing in here?" she demanded.

"Whoa, flesh!" The Mandalorian's cheeks flushed and he turned his head to the side, shielding his eyes with a hand. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't think you'd be so… naked."

"I was in the _shower_, you _di'kut_!"

He cleared his throat. "Good point."

Lynli wrapped the towel around her body and asked, "What do you want?"

"I talked to Aerek," he answered, still averting his gaze.

Her expression softened slightly. "Well?"

"I've cut it close too many times." He put his free hand to his stomach, over the spot where the Jedi Zabth had impaled him with a lightsaber. "Aerek—you all—need me to be there for you. I shouldn't be putting myself at risk for no reason. I've been acting _jare'la_. I'll stay away from _jetiise_ from now on."

"Swear."

Buruk noticeably bristled at that. "I swear."

"Thank you."

"Also, I told Morran to raise ship. We're going to find out where our crew has been taken."

"What about Kex?" she asked carefully.

Buruk frowned for a moment; it was obvious he still felt conflicted over that. Then his features slackened and he said earnestly, "He's waited this long."

# # #

Kex heard the high-pitched laughter of children as he approached the gated playground behind the daycare center. Younglings of various species and ages ran about, playing tag and hopscotch, or climbing all over the jungle gym. It was innocence incarnate and a scene completely at odds with Kex's grim expression and posture.

As he drew closer, his features softened into a warm smile and he slowed his stride to a more casual pace. It wouldn't do for him to appear uneasy or apprehensive to her. Stepping up to the gate, he took a code slicer from his pocket and inserted it into the key slot, activating it with the push of a button. In seconds, the lock clicked and the door slid aside. With his warm smile in place, he stepped onto the playground.

A little girl, about three years old, caught sight of him and her face lit up. She ran to him on short, unsteady legs that were just beginning to gain coordination, her arms held out to her sides as she called out, "_Buir_!"

Kex leaned down and scooped the little girl up in his arms, his heart bursting as she hugged him. "Did you have fun today, _cyar'ika_?" he asked, tickling her.

"Uh-huh," she said, giggling happily, as he carried her out the gate.

"That's good, because it's time for us to go." He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper and added, "Remember, we're playing hide and seek, so we have to try not to be found." His daughter simply giggled and held onto him tightly as he made their way toward the starport.


	38. Welcome to the Jungle

The CoCo District Penitentiary on Coruscant served as a holding facility for beings awaiting trial but its appearance was more impressive than its function. A high duracrete perimeter wall topped with razor wire, guard towers, and surveillance holocams surrounded the compound, giving the prison a foreboding air meant to inspire awe and fear in those that looked upon it. Qate Jularc had merely snorted derisively at the sight of it.

The interview rooms had been no less theatrical in their design, as if the architect who built CoCo Penitentiary had watched too many holofilms. Qate, dressed in a bright orange prison jumpsuit, sat with her arms folded across her chest in an empty room with only one door, across a bare table from a man in a cheap suit holding a stylus and datapad. On the wall to her left was a large mirror, obviously a disguised viewport.

"What were you doing breaking into a hospital on Chandrila?" the cop asked, looking up from his datapad.

Qate just stared silently at him, not moving a muscle. The silent treatment usually got to amateurs like this.

When she refused to answer, he cleared his throat and said, "Your partner, the Gand, has already told us everything. You might as well make this easier on yourself."

She quashed the urge to laugh in the man's face. That was the oldest trick in the book. She'd bet the horns on her head that Maalku was talking his own interrogator in circles with his cryptic nonsense. What did you expect from an investigative agency that had banned truth serums and water boarding as unethical? Her silence held.

"You had an awful lot of drugs on you when you were picked up," the cop continued. "Stuff for treating addiction, so I'm told." He paused to look her in the eye, an amazing feat considering the glare she'd been throwing him during the whole interview. "Chandrilan police also happened to pick up a Doctor Ganhuff Riscan, a spice addict wanted for manslaughter. There wouldn't happen to be any connection between you, would there?"

Qate just continued to stare.

# # #

Several hours later, Detective Pakric Orsiri stepped out of the interview room on the other side of the holding facility, pinching the bridge of his nose after a long, fruitless interrogation.

"Well?" asked Prefect Zarms as Orsiri poured himself a cup of caf. "Any headway?"

"None," the detective replied with a shake of his head before taking a long sip of the steaming hot beverage. "Kept talking about mist and fighting tortoises and a flower that grew in a cactus' shadow."

"Sounds like a bunch of mystic findsman kark to me," Zarms growled. "Bloody Gands. What about the Zabrak woman?"

"Grim and silent as a statue, that woman. Like my wife," Orsiri chuckled.

"You think there might really be a connection between them and Riscan?"

"Who knows?" the detective said, downing the rest of his caf. "Is it a suspicious coincidence? You bet. I'd like to turn them all loose in the yard, see if they mingle."

"No can do, Orsiri," Zarms said with a shake of his head. "Judge wants Riscan confined to sickbay until he's clean and competent to stand trial. Until then, he's in Doctor Andin's hands."

Orsiri just rolled his eyes and headed towards his desk to start drafting his initial report.

# # #

Kit-Sun Wolfgana stood before the Jedi High Council, weathering their scrutiny in silence. He'd delivered his report on Master Ulasac's actions and warned them of his plans. Now he awaited their judgment. Withering glares bored into him from the gathered masters, seeing into his very spirit. They were searching his soul, trying to determine if any of his friend's rebelliousness had rubbed off on him. Kit-Sun thought back to his analogy of the Temple floor's mosaic tiles.

"You should have reported to us when Master Ulasac first violated our edict," Master Windu stated with a hard edge to his voice. Of the councilors, his was the hardest stare of all. "He was banned from investigating the Jedi murders for good reason."

"Facilitated his fall into darkness, you did," Master Yoda added in a softer tone that was no less accusatory.

Kit-Sun bowed his head shamefully. "Forgive me, Masters. I interpreted my mandate to mean I should remain by his side to hold him back from the abyss."

Ki-Adi-Mundi inclined his elongated head. "Then why are you not at his side now?"

Kit-Sun swallowed past a lump in his throat. "I wanted to go with him, Master. But I believe my affirmations of piety served only to push him further away. By breaking stride with him I hoped to slow his descent enough that he might return on his own." He heaved a sigh. "Or, failing that, to alert the Council, that they may take appropriate action."

Several of the Jedi masters exchanged significant glances with each other. "Well reasoned," rumbled Master Koon through his breath mask.

"Undeserved, your reputation for wisdom is not… Master Wolfgana," said Yoda.

Kit-Sun blinked several times as the Jedi Grand Master's words sank in. So, this interview had been a trial? "Master…?"

"Your insight has proven you worthy of the title."

"Shall I contact Ren Tarant to bring Master Ulasac back to the Temple?"

"Ulasac needs time to see the folly of his actions," Windu stated. "He won't cause any problems for the Republic."

_But what of the non-Republic worlds he might search for a Mandalorian in hiding?_ Kit-Sun wondered.

# # #

The following day, Qate crossed the exercise yard to where Maalku sat cross-legged, nictitating membranes closed over his multifaceted eyes, apparently meditating. Somehow, he'd convinced the prison staff to return his conical straw hat; briefly, Qate longed for her Mandalorian armor. At least she knew it was still safe aboard the _Cuun'yaim_.

"How did your survey go, Shepherd?" the findsman asked as she sat down next to him.

"Between the towers and holocams, there's not a single blind spot," she answered, turning her gaze to the perimeter wall and the glistening towers of Coruscant beyond. By law, air traffic gave the prison a wide birth, so the skies overhead were relatively clear. It was a surprise to look up and see uninterrupted blue.

"What worries me, though, is that I haven't seen Ganhuff since we were processed," she continued. "What if they have him at a separate facility, like Centax or Pols Anaxes?"

"I see nothing in the mist that suggests Thernbee is anywhere but here," the Gand replied without moving a muscle.

"Do the mists suggest any way we might get out of here?" she hissed.

He cracked a membrane and peered sidelong at her. "Maalku is sorry. He sees nothing to aide our escape."

"Well keep looking," Qate said as she stood up and brushed off the seat of her jumpsuit. She was aware that the Gand's use of third person meant he felt ashamed of his shortcoming but there was no room for moping; they were in _prison_! They had to be hard.

As she made her way across the exercise yard, she became aware that a burly Weequay had gotten up to follow her. _Great, I wonder what this _di'kut_ has in mind._ She gradually slowed her stride so he could catch up, preparing her self for action.

When her pursuer's hand fell heavily on her shoulder, she sprang; dropping her shoulder beneath his grasp, she spun around, grabbed his wrist, and drove her knee into his stomach. Spittle flew from the Weequay's lips as his breath escaped his lungs in a huff. He fell to his knees, gasping from air, and Qate grabbed his long braided topknot in her free hand, wrapping it around his throat as an improvised garrote.

"What do you want?" she growled, planting her knee in the small of his back.

"Heard… you talking…" he gasped, clutching at his hair.

Qate tightened up on the makeshift noose. "Too bad for you."

"Know where… Riscan is."

The Zabrak gritted her teeth angrily before releasing her hold on the Weequay's tress and shoving him to the ground. Unfortunately, a group of guards arrived at that very moment. Qate threw her hands up and stepped away from her victim. The lead guards didn't even hesitate; he stepped forward and jabbed his stun baton into her armpit, dropping her as her nervous system overloaded.

"A night or two in solitary ought to cool you off," he sneered as his companions threw her arms over their shoulders and carried her away.

_That Weequay better not think he can hide from me when I get out_, she thought.

# # #

Kit-Sun found his new title afforded him an uncomfortable level of deference from Jedi who only yesterday had been his peers. Being bowed to by others as he wandered the Temple halls was an experience totally alien to him. _They look at me differently now. It's as if they don't think I'm the same person anymore._

He'd spent most of the morning in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, sitting in quiet contemplation of how recent events had affected his place in the Force. He found himself fidgeting every so often, feeling restless as he tried to keep his mind quiet. _This isn't good_, he thought. _I feel I need to be _doing_ something. That's hardly like me._ Perhaps more of Master Ulasac had rubbed off on him than the Council had thought.

Kit-Sun forced himself to sit still and quiet his mind.

He couldn't.

In the heart of a Republic that spanned thousands of sectors, there had to be _something_ he could do. He stood, brushed off his trousers, and made his way from the meditation garden. He went to the nearest computer terminal where he accessed the database of pending aide requests. _The people pay for my clothes, my food, the very Temple I live in. That ought to make me beholden to them just as much as any senator. I'll do what I can to pay them back for it._

"Isss there sssomething I can help you with, Master Wolfgana?" Master Durssk, the Trandoshan assignment director, asked through the terminal.

"Just seeing if I can lend a helping hand somewhere," Kit-Sun answered in a cheerful tone.

"You're in luck then," Durssk replied. "Just thisss morning, the CoCo District Constabulary filed for Jedi assistance in an investigation of theirsss. It ssseemssss one of their prisonersss isss very good at withholding information from them." He hissed a rasping chuckle.

"All right, I'll see what I can do to convince them otherwise."

# # #

Detective Orsiri shouldered his way through the crowded precinct to greet the Jedi. _It's amazing they answered the request so quick_, he thought, finally breaking through the throng of police gathered officers and offering his hand to shake. "Greetings Master Jedi, I'm Detective Pakric Orsiri," he said.

"I'm Master Kit-Sun Wolfgana," the Jedi replied with a friendly smile as he took the proffered hand. He had long black hair and bright red triangles tattooed to his cheeks that matched his beard and gave him an exotic appearance.

"Kiffar?" Orsiri hazarded a guess, turning to lead the way for the Jedi.

"That's right, Detective."

"I thought so," he said with a nod. "I've heard you have a special way of reading objects to learn their history. What's it called again?"

"Psychometry," Wolfgana supplied helpfully.

"Yeah, that's it. Comes in handy with crime scenes." Orsiri swiped his keycard and opened the door into the security room. "Have you ever liaised with police forces before?"

"Once, on Corellia," the Jedi answered, peering closely at the monitor displays and absently stroking his beard. "My partner and I were helping CorSec track down a terrorist group."

"Did you manage to bring them down?" Orsiri asked, intrigued.

"Actually, a group of bounty hunters got to them before we could." Changing the subject he asked, "Which one are you having trouble with interrogating, Detective?"

Orsiri pointed out the Zabrak woman, Jularc, sitting in solitary confinement. "Her," he said. "Won't say a word, just sits there glaring at me with her arms crossed."

Wolfgana's eyebrows shot up at the sight of her. "By the Force," he breathed.

"You know her?"

"She was one of the bounty hunters on Corellia."

"You don't say. Think you can get her to talk?"

"Psychometry isn't my only specialty," he answered dryly straightening up and slipping his hands into the sleeves of his cloak.

# # #

Qate lay on her bunk, resting her head on her hands and slowly bouncing her leg up and down. She'd taken the opportunity given to her by solitary confinement to practice her whistling and, in her opinion, was starting to get quite good at it. _Still a far cry from a rousing chorus of _Dha Werda Verda_, though_, she thought.

Across the isolation cell, the heavy lock clicked open and the door slid aside with an almost inaudible hiss. Qate rolled her eyes. No doubt, that cop with the cheap suit was back for more questioning. She threw him a sidelong glance and then sat bolt upright, nearly falling off the bunk, when she saw Buruk, in full armor, standing in the doorway with his _buy'cye_ tucked under one arm.

"Buruk?" she gaped. "I don't believe my eyes. What're you doing here?"

He gave her a friendly smile. "Not happy to see me?" he asked, mock hurtfully. "Well I guess I'll just be going then."

He began to turn away. "Wait!" she called after him. "How'd you get here?"

"Funny, I was going to ask you the same question," he replied, turning back to her. "I leave the ship for a few hours and you go and get yourself arrested for burglarizing a hospital. Why?"

She was wary of answering in her cell; she knew she was monitored. They'd be stupid _not_ to keep tabs on the prisoners in solitary. She cast her eyes meaningfully about the room where the holocams were; had he disabled all the security systems before barging in here?

But… this wasn't the isolation cell. She was standing before Buruk in her own quarters aboard the _Cuun'yaim_. Her brow furrowed in confusion. Something wasn't right. _How did I get here?_ she wondered, sitting back down on her bunk. She couldn't remember escaping the prison. When she tried thinking back to it, things got… muddy.

"Well?" Buruk asked with uncharacteristic patience. "Why the robbery?"

Qate shook her head to clear it and returned her gaze to him. "Come on Buruk, you know Ganhuff was in a bad way," she said. "The only way to help him through his withdrawal was with actual treatment. We sure couldn't trust the black market to get us what we needed for him."

"I suppose you're right," he admitted with a nod. "But why didn't you at least bring me along on your big heist?"

She frowned. He should've known why. "You were already headed for the caves when we started planning the job," she said. "Since you're here, can I assume the _jetii_ is dead?"

Buruk swallowed hard. "That's right. His Padawan too."

Qate frowned. "You should've let the kid go."

"She… got in the way," he replied awkwardly. His tone was a cross between regret and false toughness.

"Collateral damage," she snorted.

"Something like that."

"So, did Mulokhai like his squalls?" Qate asked, changing the subject. "How much did we get?"

"Plenty," Buruk replied as he turned to leave. "Don't worry, you'll get what's coming to you."

# # #

Kit-Sun left the cell, having erased the Zabrak's memory of the encounter and feeling very guilty about it. He'd gotten the information the police needed and confirmed the identity of the man hunting down the Jedi who'd survived Galidraan. What's more, he'd gotten the name of a possible contact, Mulokhai. It was the method that disturbed him; willfully manipulating not only someone's perceptions, but their very memories, was awfully dark territory in his book. That was why he usually reserved his talent for it for more benign things.

"That was just spooky," Detective Orsiri said, falling in step beside him. "I saw the whole thing. She really thought you were someone else."

"The Force can have a strong influence on the minds of others," Kit-Sun replied automatically. His thoughts were on the Mandalorian bounty hunter and his murderous agenda. Armed with this information, what would the Jedi do with it? Forcing a grin, he added, "As a youngling, I had quite the reputation as a trickster."

The detective chuckled and Kit-Sun joined in, though he felt no mirth.

# # #

The world was a solid black curtain across Ganhuff Riscan's vision, devoid of form or texture. He inhaled the crisp, sharp odor of cleaning solution that signaled his location as a medical suite. He opened his eyes to bright, blinding light. He tried to throw his hand to shield his eyes, only to find his hands had been restrained.

_So, Qate's still "treating" me, eh?_ he thought, screwing his eyes shut once more. "Hello?" he croaked aloud. His mouth was dry, his throat scratchy. He didn't like that. "Water?"

Someone obliged him, propping his head up with one hand while holding a glass to his parched lips. He sipped cautiously, not wanting to inhale any. It was wonderfully cool. "Thank you," he said after leaning his head back once more.

"You're welcome, Doctor," said an unfamiliar male voice. "Welcome back to the land of the living."

Ganhuff opened his eyes again and cast his gaze about the room. There were none of the familiar surroundings of the ship's med-bay. It appeared to be a professional clinic like any other across the civilized galaxy. He looked over at the man who'd spoken, seated in a low-backed rolling chair. He had short, neatly combed black hair and otherwise plain features. His only distinguishing feature was the pronounced cleft in his chin.

"Good morning," Ganhuff managed with as much dignity as he could muster while strapped down to an examining table.

"Good afternoon, actually," the plain-looking doctor replied. "The local time is fourteen twenty-five, if you're interested." He held a penlight to each of Ganhuff's eyes, checking for papillary response.

"I feel… different," Ganhuff confessed.

"I'm not surprised," the doctor said. "You're completely clean for the first in… what has it been? Three years?"

_Clean? As in… over it?_ "That's good news," he said with a sigh.

"You may think otherwise. You're to stand trial when I deem you competent."

Ganhuff tried not to bristle at that and failed spectacularly. "You're a psychiatrist, then?"

"Of course, Doctor Riscan. Don't you remember me?" His friendly smile had a distinct air of falsehood that Ganhuff found unsettling. "I think you should remember someone whose life you ruined."


	39. Head Games

_A Jedi is never alone. With the Force as my ally, I am never alone._

Through the Force, Nurt Ulasac could feel the ebb and flow of life all around him in the crowded passenger compartment of the starship as it hurtled through hyperspace. The humid chamber smelled of sweat and engine grease, and buzzed like a cafeteria in the Temple, with so many conversations going on at once. Beings of all species huddled in small groups, friends and families, companions of one sort or another.

Ulasac sat cross-legged, leaning against the bulkhead in one corner of the hold, and watched everyone else. He had no companions. Cut off from the Order, he had no transport or funds to charter a vessel of his own, so he traveled aboard a tramp freighter. _I should have just commandeered a vessel_, he thought. _Maybe at the next port._

There could be no delay. He had to reach Ren Tarant on Kashyyyk, and quickly. He'd already warned her of the grave danger she was in, but he had to join her. He _felt_ it.

A rogue Mandalorian who had somehow escaped the massacre on Galidraan was systematically hunting down the Jedi who had survived the battle there. It had started with Ulasac's own Padawan, Jomel. His death had opened a dark, painful wound in the Jedi's heart, a wound that had festered with every subsequent murder.

The Jedi Council then betrayed Ulasac's trust, forbidding him from investigating the matter and assuring him that it was being looked into. In reality, they simply ignored the problem and more Jedi died. Weary of the Council's willful blindness, he ignored their order and took it upon himself to hunt the killer down. All he wanted now was to take revenge on the Mandalorian and stop him at all costs.

And cost him it did.

His dearest friend, Kit-Sun Wolfgana, had abandoned him on Chandrila, intent on informing on him to the Jedi Council. That the Order could have become so obsessed with bureaucracy and procedure that it would cause friends to betray one another eroded Ulasac's faith in the Council further.

Immersing himself in the Force, he focused on his goal: bringing the Mandalorian to justice. Concentrating on that eventuality, he whispered in his mind, _I am not alone._

# # #

Doctor Anakef Andin strolled down the halls of CoCo District Penitentiary toward his office, whistling cheerfully to himself. The weather was pleasantly warm in typical upper Coruscant fashion and his commute had been fast and free of delays. He had his designer suit fresh from the cleaners, his morning caf in hand, and his nemesis locked away in the psychiatric ward pending trial. He was on top of the world.

When he arrived at his cramped office, he hung up his jacket, settled in behind the desk, and shuffled a few files around. It was all make-work, of course. CoCo Penitentiary's inmates certainly didn't merit a psychiatrist of his caliber. He belonged somewhere better, more prestigious, where he'd have access to grants and materials to develop his own theories and advance the galaxy's understanding of the mind. How he longed to study the Jedi and the power they called the "Force," to test his hypothesis that their so-called energy field was an extraordinary case of mind over matter. He could have published untold volumes filling the gaps in the common being's understanding of what was an everyday affair to those robed mystics.

But that opportunity had long since been lost to him. CoCo District was as much a prison to him as it was to his patients, and the small, unremarkable office was his cell. Even the view from his window was unexceptional, looking over undistinguished buildings that sprawled uniformly to the horizon, packed into their neat rows with nothing special about them. It was all too ordinary to look at and Andin opaqued the transparisteel before the sight could spoil his good mood. He had a patient to attend to.

"Good morning Doctor," he said cheerfully as he entered Riscan's cell. How did you sleep?"

"The mattress is too lumpy for my tastes," the prisoner replied evenly, leaning back in his chair and plucking bits of lint from his orange jumpsuit. "I also prefer to settle in with a warm cup of Manellan Jasper and listen to a nocturne composed by Lorturus. I find it very soothing."

"I've always preferred Qualon to Lorturus, myself," Andin said absently as he scrawled notes on his datapad.

"I suspected as much," Riscan said, resting an ankle on one knee. "That glorified lift-tube musician always pandered to the masses, letting his audience define his style rather than the other way around. That's why he was so popular among dullards."

Andin looked up to see a self-satisfied smirk spread across the surgeon's face and he bristled. _Why, that smug…_ He composed himself and leaned forward in his seat.

"Doctor Riscan, I don't think you appreciate the situation you're in," he said, dropping his voice. "I determine when or if you go to trial for every charge they'll bring against you. The judge has denied you bail as a demonstrated flight risk. You're not going anywhere but a courthouse and then to a prison for a very long time. Right now I have all the power in the galaxy to decide if that will be a private hospital room to rehabilitate your damaged psyche or a gloomy permacrete box with durasteel bars and your very own boyfriend. You might consider showing me more respect."

He expected Riscan's expression to fall. Instead, his smile widened and he replied, "I've been running with a pretty tough crowd lately, if you hadn't heard; mercenaries and smugglers—pirates, even." He dropped the smile. "Do your worst."

_My worst?_ Andin thought. _I've been planning my worst for you for years, Doctor._ This time it was his face that revealed a sly grin. "Did you enjoy your first night's sleep free of glitterstim? It plays havoc with the REM cycles of those addicted, you know. Imagine all the habit-forming things at my fingertips I could put in your system and start you right back on that road to ruin. What makes you think I even want you to make it inside a courtroom after what you did to me?"

Riscan shifted uncomfortably but managed a frown. "What I did to you?" he asked. "I don't recall ever having _met_ you."

Andin fumed. _How dare he not know what he did? _He stood, gathered up his datapad, and went to the door. Turning back, he caught Riscan's confused look and said, "I have other patients that need tending to, but don't worry. I shan't forget about you."

# # #

Ganhuff watched the psychiatrist walk out and immediately began wracking his brain trying to remember whether he'd ever seen the man's face or heard his name. Some details were hard to pick out from the early days of his addiction. Had there been an Andin among the patients he'd killed? Ganhuff couldn't recall. If that had been the case, why hadn't he just said so?

The blasted shrink was playing mind games with him, drawing out the mystery as some weird form of torture. Ganhuff had never much liked psychiatrists. Some people said police officers and soldiers could never really "switch off" and he suspected it was the same with them; they always looked at people as if they were analyzing them and it gave him the creeps.

One thing was certain, though. Letting his imagination run wild with the possibilities was exactly what Andin wanted him to do. Instead, he lay back down on his cot, propped his head up on his hands, and began to whistle Lorturus' Ninth. He hoped that if Andin was monitoring him—and he was certain he was—he'd recognize the tune. Sometimes even dullards could spot a subtle insult.

# # #

"Take your hands off me!"

Ulasac heard the woman's cry halfway across the hold. He'd already felt her distress in the Force like a pot of boiling water splashing him in the face, rousing him from his sleep. He rose to his feet, homing in on the source of that emotion like a proton torpedo, and pushed through the crowded ship to the small ring of onlookers who stood idly by. _The dark side prevails when good men do nothing_, he grumbled to himself, disgusted that they could just stand there and watch. They reminded him briefly of the Council.

The Twi'lek found a young Caamasi female with cream-colored fur struggling to break free from a burly Gran wearing a ship's uniform; the three-eyed goat-faced crewman gripped her delicate wrists with thick, meaty fingers and tried to drag her away. For a physically weaker species, the Caamasi was putting up quite a fight, digging her heels into the deck and lowering her center of gravity to make it harder for her to be pulled along.

"What's going on here?" Ulasac demanded as he stepped into the open. "Unhand that female and explain yourself."

"Get lost, 'fugee," the Gran spat, focusing one of his three eyes on the intruder. "Her man can't pay, so I'll take her in trade." He yanked the Caamasi harder, putting his full weight into the effort. She lost her traction and was hauled half a meter toward the far side of the encircling bystanders. He was trying to take her to the crew quarters for a sinister purpose the Twi'lek could easily guess.

Ulasac didn't hesitate; hesitation was what had led him to this sorry pass. He drew his lightsaber and severed one of the crewman's arms in a single motion. The limb fell, bloodless, to the deck with a wet smack and the Gran cried out in pain, stumbling a few steps away as he clutched at the stump with his remaining hand. "My arm!" he screamed indignantly.

"I told you to unhand her," Ulasac snarled. "Now I've un-handed you. Crawl off to the med-bay before I decided to sever something else you wretch." Someone stepped forward to help the Gran to his feet and the Jedi felt a fresh surge of disgust course through his veins. He turned to the Caamasi. Her dirty smock was torn so that her thin, downy shoulders were exposed. "Are you alright?" he asked, ignoring the remaining gawkers as he closed down the lightsaber and attached it to his belt.

"I'm fine," she said, gazing at him with violet-ringed eyes. "Thank you. What is a Jedi doing here?"

"Helping those that can't help themselves," he answered.

# # #

"You're not very good, are you?"

Andin cocked his head to one side. "Pardon?" he asked mildly.

Ganhuff let a thin smile touch his lips. Over the last few days, he'd taken a distinct pleasure in raking the psychiatrist over the coals with his acid remarks, watching him shift uncomfortably in his seat or look down to scribble notes on his datapad to avoid the surgeon's gaze. He was probably digging his own grave in doing so, but he enjoyed it nonetheless. Just being able to stand up and walk about unburdened by that constant, nagging _yearning_ for spice put an extra spring in his step. There'd been times when he thought the only way he'd get that Kowakian monkey-lizard off his back would be to take a long walk in space without a suit. Maybe now that he was clean, Qate wouldn't look at him with that expression of mixed revulsion and pity she'd perfected during their acquaintance.

"You must not have done very well in school," he explained. "If so, you'd have a private practice, treating Banking Clan chairmen or Trade Federation viceroys trying to deal with their 'fear of success.'" Those over-priced therapists who listened to you rant and rave about your problems and then asked you what you thought of them were a joke. For three hundred credits an hour, you'd expect to hear what the kriffing so-called expert thought.

"At the very least you'd be attached to a legitimate hospital," Ganhuff continued, taking a sip from his water glass. Clean, non-recycled water; now there was a long-lost luxury he'd all but forgotten on the Outer Rim. "No, you must be pretty worthless to have to work at a prison."

Andin's brow twitched at that and Ganhuff had to stifle a chuckle; to laugh in the man's face would certainly be satisfying, but it would ruin his entire scathing, backhanded approach.

"As if you weren't aware, I had to repeat my entire final semester," he said in a low, dangerous tone.

Ganhuff kept his expression neutral. _As if I wasn't aware? How the _shab_ would I have known that?_ A moment later, he realized what he'd though and mentally chastised himself, _Damn it all, now Buruk's got _me_ doing it. That barbarian tongue of his just rubs off on everyone, doesn't it?_

"Naturally," he said aloud, taking another sip of water as if his assumption had been totally vindicated. He still couldn't recall ever meeting or hearing the name Andin, even with daily reminders from the psychiatrist that he'd somehow ruined the man's life.

Once the "session" had completed, Andin paused in the cell doorway and cast his gaze back at Ganhuff where he sat on his bunk looking non-threatening. "You don't have a clue, do you?" he asked, narrowing his eyes. "You murdered my future. And I lament that loss every day."

# # #

Finally, the day arrived when Doctor Andin had to give his assessment of Ganhuff Riscan to the judge presiding over his trial. The CoCo District Courthouse defied the Coruscanti norm, sprawling outward rather than up, a squat, grey edifice with decorative gargoyles and columns atop a broad stairway on either side of the massive front doors. It stood a mere ten stories high on the same street as the local constabulary headquarters, just off Skyroute D25D, and was dwarfed by many of the surrounding skytowers.

On the automated skyroute, it normally took Andin a mere twenty minutes to reach the courthouse and he always departed from his home in Hirkenglade Prefecture so as to arrive exactly fifteen minutes before his appointments. He ran his whole life by his chronometer, abhorring tardiness; the importance of punctuality had been a harsh lesson. It irritated him when traffic backed up, delaying his arrival by a whole three minutes. _Get out of my way_, he thought angrily at the airspeeders ahead of him. _I have someplace important to be!_

Taking his seat in the courtroom, he waited patiently to be called on by the judge, betraying not the slightest hint that he'd been infuriated by the traffic jam. He recognized all the faces in the room, the judge's and district attorney's, the defense counselor and Detective Orsiri from the constabulary. The detective caught his attention with an interrogative look, trying to sound out what the psychiatrist thought of the defendant. Typical of his profession, Orsiri wanted Riscan prosecuted to the full extent of the law, and maybe even a little bit beyond that, just for good measure; he didn't want a killer getting out of prison just because some head shrink called him crazy.

But Andin intended just that. When the judge finally called on him, the psychiatrist stood up and said, "Your Honor, it is my professional medical opinion that Ganhuff Riscan is not mentally fit to stand trial at this time." Those in attendance began murmuring amongst themselves. Orsiri glared daggers at Andin. He continued, "He is emotionally unstable and taking him to court now may very well undo the delicate balance I've achieved with him during my initial observations."

The district attorney, a bald, bulbous-headed Bith, leapt to his feet. "Your Honor, this is outrageous!" he declared in a harsh, gargling voice. "The families of Riscan's victims have already gone three years without justice; now that we have him, he _must_ face trial."

The judge looked back to Andin. "What could happen if Riscan were to be put on trial?"

Andin kept his expression perfectly neutral. "I've seen recovering addicts, overcome with stress and without the escape they're accustomed to, detach completely, slipping into a catatonic state." His smile remained inward. "Particularly in the case of the Republic v. Czkorr." Judges loved to jump on any old piece of bantha poodoo legal precedent tossed out to them. "Were that to occur, there'd be no telling when he may come out of it; he may never get to stand trial then, and his victims' families will be forced to forego justice indefinitely."

"Very well," the judge said. "Ganhuff Riscan will remain in custody at CoCo Penitentiary to undergo further psychological observation and rehabilitation. Doctor Andin will supply the court with another evaluation of his mental competence in one month's time. Court adjourned."

With the banging of the gavel, all present rose to their feet as the judge stood and left the courtroom. Andin collected his datapads, slipped them into his briefcase, and headed for the door. Orsiri caught up with him outside on the courthouse steps.

"What was that kark?" the detective hissed at him.

"I beg your pardon?" the psychiatrist asked, absently checking his chrono.

Orsiri was red-faced. "Letting a killer stay out of prison because it'll hurt his feelings."

"He's hardly free, if that's what you mean," Andin answered and kept walking; if he made it to his speeder in the next ten minutes, he could catch a show at the CoCo District Theatre before heading home.

"That's hardly making him face his crimes!" the detective called after him.

_On the contrary_, Andin thought, finally letting his smile show through. _I'll be making him face his most heinous crime of all: crossing me._

# # #

Ulasac stepped out of the tramp freighter's dingy hold, literally into a whole other world. Sunshine gleamed off the flowing white towers of Aldera and sparkled on the surface of the great lake in the center of which Alderaan's capital rested. The Jedi Master had to stop and blink several times until his eyes adjusted to the brightness.

"Come on, keep it moving," one of the ship's crew grumbled. The man glared at Ulasac as if he wanted to reach out and shove him along but was wary of what might happen to his hand if he did. There was no doubt that everyone aboard was happy to see the Jedi go.

With only the clothes on his back, Master Ulasac made his way through the spaceport in search of a vessel that he could take to Kashyyyk. There were a few Corellian and Ghtroc freighters, some small one-man fighters, and one big Gozanti cruiser. Nothing terribly useful to him; he needed something fast that he could pilot himself but could also carry others. His goal was to gather Tarant and hunt down their assassin together and he couldn't exactly cram her into the cargo space of a Z-95 Headhunter.

At last, he came across the perfect vessel: a _Baudo_-class star yacht. Its smooth, organic lines gave it the appearance of a deep-sea creature, every craft custom-built to order. Requiring only a single pilot, its class two hyperdrive would carry him quickly to his destination.

He found the owner, an affluently dressed young man, sitting in a folding chair with a sun visor over his eyes, a service droid fanning him gently. "Citizen," Ulasac called out to him as he approached, "I need to commandeer your vessel."

"Get lost, wormhead," the young man replied with a sneer, lifting a bright blue drink and sipping noisily through a wildly looping straw.

"It's Jedi business," the Twi'lek insisted, showing his lightsaber and trying to ignore the wormhead comment.

The spoiled brat's brow furrowed with annoyance. "I told you to get lost!" He snapped his fingers and the droid abruptly stopped fanning. It pointed its finger at Ulasac like a youngling pretending he has a blaster and the tip irised open.

"You are requested to move at least twenty meters away from the young master," it said in a reasonable voice. "If you do not comply, I will be forced to—"

That was as far as the droid got before a frustrated Ulasac sliced it in half. Then, with the Force, he reached out and took the yacht's owner by the windpipe. "_I_ told _you_," he said through clenched teeth, "it's Jedi business."

Gasping for air, the youth clutched at his throat with one hand while digging frantically in his pocket with the other. "Here," he choked out, thrusting the vessel's activation card at the Jedi. "Don't hurt me!"

Ulasac took the proffered card and released the young man, letting him sag in his chair. "The Republic thanks you," he sneered as he walked up the boarding ramp into his new ship.


	40. Main Offender

The cigarette case caught the light on its chrome plating, sending brilliant flashes across the engraved letters Mern and Resh. They stood for Miko Risant.

_Bet you're spinning in your urn, huh Dad?_ Morran Risant thought as he pocketed the case, took a long drag off his cigarette, and blew a wisp of smoke out toward the _Cuun'yaim_'s viewport and the tidally locked planet beyond. He sat with his booted feet up on the console, watching Troiken grow as it dredged up long-lost memories and dreams. He imagined a captain's insignia and a jubilee of medals on his chest, and young men saluting him respectfully. A far cry from where he'd ended up.

Somewhere in that space between Troiken and the approaching freighter, his father had died in the opening shots of the so-called Stark War, over a decade ago. The troop transport he'd been piloting had taken a direct hit from the Combine flagship and started breaking up as it fell toward the planet. His Old Man had held it together just long enough for most of the passengers to make it to the escape pods but paid for it by riding the wreck all the way down. He'd saved a lot of lives with his sacrifice and Morran had decided then and there that when he turned eighteen two years later, he'd join the navy too.

And where had all that pride and ambition gotten him? A dishonorable discharge after a year of academy training and only five on active duty. A decade of his life lost, and his early twenties to boot. No legitimate companies would hire Morran as a pilot, not with his service record hanging like a shadow over his reputation, in spite of his skill.

He'd been forced out onto the fringes, freelancing as a hunt-saboteur, keeping criminals out of prison instead of helping lock them up. The first few months of that had been… conflicting. Only the growling of an empty stomach managed to quiet the little voice in his head that sounded like his father's and told him what he was doing was wrong. After all, what could be more wrong than starving oneself out of pridefulness?

Still, though he may have come to enjoy the thrill of out flying bounty hunters and Judicials, his father's little voice never went completely silent. Now, as Morran approached Troiken with his captain's intent of loading up the cargo hold with several crates of spice, it came roaring back at him.

Suddenly the pilot's fingers stung and he snapped back to the present, yelping in pain and dropping the smoldering cigarette that had burned down to the butt during his reverie. Stamping it out, he reached for the comm and flicked it onto an open channel. "This is Morran Risant in the _Cuun'yaim_ and I'm talking to whoever's listening out there." He'd taken to broadcasting a running monologue to alleviate the boredom of interstellar travel, regardless of how stealthy an enterprise the crew may have been running.

"I've flown from one side this galaxy to other and seen a lot of strange stuff if my time and I got to tell you, one of the weirdest involved a Zeltron burlesque show in the Bozhnee sector. I'll never forget the things I saw them do with a ping-pong ball and a bottle of _Whyren's Reserve_, no matter how hard I try…"

# # #

The _Dire-cat_ cruised along the outer edges of the Troiken system, its sensors on the lookout for spice freighters departing the planet's surface with a full hold. No one ever considered how easily the skills acquired working drug interdiction could be applied to piracy. Both involved disabling an enemy ship, detaining her crew, and confiscating her cargo. What law-respecting member of CorSec special operations, decorated with the Corellian Bloodstripe, would ever turn to such activities?

One determined to get ahead no matter what.

Sellek Minisi sat in his captain's chair aboard his illegally acquired Corellian gunship, his feet propped up on a keg of lomin ale, and listened lazily to his crew working on the bridge. He twirled an oversized blaster pistol back and forth in one hand, admiring the chromed finish as it blurred into a silvery disk around his finger, as he thumbed lazily at the priceless Corusca gem ring on his opposite hand.

"Captain!" one of the sensor officers called out to him. Minisi ignored him and kept twirling his gun. "Captain!" the man called again, more urgently. It showed a lack of discipline, something that Minisi, as a highly trained special ops commando, hated.

Finally, the sensor officer got up from his station and walked over to the captain's chair. "Captain?"

As soon as the word escaped his lips, Minisi ceased his gunplay and trained the barrel right between the man's eyes. The sensor officer froze and his brows shot up. "This is the bridge of a starship," the captain said, narrowing alien lavender eyes flecked with blue. "Not a cattle market. If you have information for the captain, you bring it to him. You don't shout it in his general direction. Clear?" The officer nodded, swallowing hard. "Good. Now what is it?"

"Spotted a ship headed inbound for Troiken, sir," he stammered. "But… but it's just a piece of junk, probably not worth our time—"

"Show me." Minisi stood.

The sensor officer led him to his station and pointed out the vessel headed for the planet. "Just a trashy old tramp freighter," the officer said. "Barely worth anything as parts. Sorry to bother you."

Minisi leaned over the monitor and studied the readout. "Yeah, but when you put those parts together, you get a Firefly, see? Corellian Engineering's best kept secret."

Suddenly the comlink crackled as someone broadcasted on an open frequency. A cocky male voice declared, "This is Morran Risant in the _Cuun'yaim_ and I'm talking to whoever's listening out there."

Minisi snorted. This was his lucky day. "Keep a sharp eye," he told the sensor officer and turned back to his chair. "When they're headed back out, we'll hit them hard and fast, disable them, and take their cargo. Then we'll sell the ship and the crew."

"Aye, with pleasure, Captain."

# # #

"All right, I want this to go smooth," Buruk said, draping his poncho over his civilian attire. He was trying to be discreet; too much rampaging around in his _beskar'gam_ would get him noticed and that was one _aaray_ he didn't need. _Not while I'm planning to make a jailbreak in the near future._ "We need this payoff so we can buy our friends' location from Mulokhai's contact in the Judicial Department. Also want to get moving again quick; local METOSP says Bando Gora were spotted picking a derelict clean in the next sector."

"Right," Lynli agreed as she strapped on her gun belt and mounted the new repulsor dolly they'd invested in. She punched a few buttons on the control panel and the vehicle rumbled to life, rising half a meter off the deck.

"I love a woman who can operate heavy machinery," Buruk chuckled and helped Aerek up onto the back of the swoop bike. "Come along _ad'ika_. Got to learn how to negotiate the right price for your services some time."

As he swung his leg over the bike's saddle, he heard footsteps clanging on the catwalk overhead. "If you don't mind," Morran called, jogging down the stairway to the cargo room floor, "I'd like to come too."

Buruk raised an eyebrow at the pilot. "Any particular reason?" He'd hired him on as the ship's pilot specifically so he could stay with the ship in case of trouble.

He held up his heavily tattooed arms, prominently displaying a winged Republic roundel on one and a dreadnaught heavy cruiser on the other, and said, "I could use some Vitamin D. Look how pasty I'm getting staying cooped up aboard ship all the time."

Buruk rolled his eyes and motioned with his head. "Alright, climb up on the dolly with Lynli."

# # #

_"Why did you join the Corellian Sector Navy, Cadet Risant?"_

_ Morran stood at rigid attention, shoulders back, hands cupped at his sides, and eyes straight ahead, betraying nothing as rain drummed against the assembled training flight. . "Sir, Cadet Risant reports as ordered: The noblest of endeavors is the service of others!"_

_ The drill instructor leaned in close so that the brim of his campaign hat nearly brushed against Morran's temple. "Quoting Berethron e Solo won't score you any points, Cadet," he barked. Unlike the cadets, he was perfectly dry and comfortable in his waterproof poncho. "But that's correct." He turned and strode to the front of the formation. "Since Cadet Risant wants to serve others," he bellowed, "he can serve the flight by calling cadence! Double time, Risant! Move 'em out!"_

_ "Yes sir!" Risant responded. "Flight—for-ard—harch! Double-time!" As one, the column broke into a run, splashing through puddles, as he shouted out a rhythm, keeping them in step. By the time they made it back to their barracks, they were drenched._

# # #

Morran puffed lazily on another cigarette as he wandered through town with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his shabby yellow flightsuit. Buruk may have warmed up to having him around but he was still a fifth wheel when dealing with clients so he just headed off by himself, to "see the sights" such as they were, and continued to reminisce about his time at Camp Kinrath.

It went on like that for a whole year, exactly three-hundred and sixty-eight grueling days of blood, sweat, and tears. He'd sacrificed so much every day, his body during brutal physical conditioning courses, his mind in advanced classroom lessons, and even his social life for hours of in-depth study. But the day he graduated, the day the camp commandant pinned on his ensign's insignia and shook his hand, all the sacrifices had been worth it. He'd qualified for flight school.

Things had only gotten harder from there, but he was determined to come out on top. Nothing was going to stop him, not even all the other hotshots that were both his comrades and competition. With his drive, Morran's skill flourished and it wasn't long before he was a lieutenant, junior grade certified on everything from small, one-man fighters to the biggest battlewagons in the fleet. His next duty assignment was aboard the _Dreadnaught_-class heavy cruiser _Cerulean Spirit_, hunting down pirates and smugglers within the Corellian sector.

That's where he met Sellek Minisi and learned that he could spend all his time serving others, but no one was going to look out for him.

# # #

_The op had gone all wrong and now CorSec's six-man Tactical Response Team—TRT—was pinned down on a rooftop, taking heavy fire from neighboring buildings. After months of planning and prep work, they'd stormed a villa belonging to a prominent drug lord on Xyquine II, on the sector border, only to have his goons turn the tables on them and spring their own ambush._

_ Morran flew the evac shuttle, screaming down through the atmosphere faster than any sane pilot would have considered feasible. "We won't be able to pull out in time!" his copilot insisted as the altimeter wound down so fast the numbers were a blur._

_ "To hell with the odds!" Morran bellowed as he held the controls steady. He had to get those men out of there. He could see them huddled together, taking cover behind a low planting trough with vines creeping up from the soil, blaster bolts raining down at the from all directions; three men were wounded, one in critical condition, but they still put up a fight. The team leader directed their fire while holding his sidearm on a morbidly obese man in khaki fatigues, the cartel's tin-pot general. _So, they still managed to achieve their objective_, Morran thought admiringly._

_ At one hundred meters off the deck, he pulled the shuttle's nose up, leveling out and hovering over the rooftop. He could hear small arms fire ping off the hull like handfuls of rocks being thrown at the tin shed; he tuned it out, focusing on the beleaguered men below. IR and EM sensors picked up their attackers' positions in the surrounding buildings and Morran reoriented his craft to bring weapons to bear. Dispassionately, he said, "Open fire."_

_ The shuttle's main cannons, a pair of big, crew-served rotary blasters on either side of the passenger cabin, sounded like giant zippers, firing too fast to hear individual shots as they stitched the buildings, hurling rubble and masonry through the air. Once the hostiles were clear, Morran settled the craft down on its repulsors and waited anxiously; this was the most dangerous part of an extraction. Would enemy reinforcements arrive? Would they be packing heavy ordnance like plex rockets or mass drivers? Some of the bigger drug runners could afford that kind of firepower._

_ At last, he heard the TRT leader say, "All aboard, take us out."_

_ The trip back to the _Spirit_ was silent. Medics greeted them in the hangar with stretchers for the wounded, whisking them off to sickbay. The TRT leader turned to Morran and offered his hand to shake as he removed his helmet and shook out red-streaked black hair. "Hell of a rescue, El-Tee," he said jovially. Morran could see the relief in the near-human man's lavender eyes. "I owe you a whole case of _Whyren's Reserve_ for that."_

_ "Don't mention it," the pilot replied. He motioned his head to the fat man in uniform being lead away by the MPs; Morran couldn't quite put his finger on it but the drug lord somehow appeared thinner than he had from the air. "I can't believe you managed to take him alive after all that, Sergeant…"_

_ "Minisi," the commando supplied with a grin. "Sellek Minisi. He was real cooperative when I threatened to put this where the sun don't shine." His grin widened as he held up a spike-shaped bore-bang._

_ The pilot chuckled. "Call me Morran. Let me buy you and your men a drink."_

# # #

Buruk found his pilot in the city square, sitting on a bench in front of a tall bronzium statue of a human male in a military uniform, striding over debris and the body of a fallen soldier while looking back over his right shoulder. At the base of the statue was a plaque that read, "Ranulph Tarkin—The Hero of Troiken/Senator, General, Martyr."

"Paying your respects to the champion of the Republic's outreach program?" he asked, crossing his arms beneath his poncho. He knew Risant was some kind of Judicial fighter jock before moving into the private sector. It figured he'd want to come visit a Stark War memorial.

To the Mandalorian's surprise, Risant took a drag off his cigarette, blew out a wisp of smoke, and then spat square on the plaque. "Yep," he answered, standing up and stamping out his cigarette butt. "That's about all the respect I have for the Republic." He started walking away toward the spaceport where the _Cuun'yaim_ was docked.

"That's funny," Buruk said, falling into step beside him. "I thought you vets worshiped the Republic Roundel."

"I'm not that old, Buruk," Morran scoffed, throwing him a sidelong glance. "My dad died in the War, though. Made me want to join the navy and fly just like him."

"Nothing wrong with that. I guess you could say I'm from a military family too. But if you respected him and his sacrifice here, why the hostility?"

Morran reached into a vest pocket for his chromed cigarette case and clamped another between his lips. "The System," he said, cupping his hands around his lighter. Then, after blowing out a smoke ring, he explained, "Tarkin was incompetent, a politician playing soldier, according to the rank-and-file vets; you know, the ones no one listens to. Didn't know a broadside from his backside and fell apart under pressure. The system goes to work on him and makes him a hero."

Buruk nodded. He knew plenty about military history and was more than familiar with the _aruetiise_ habit of heaping undeserved glory upon the formchair generals that sat safe and snug in their bunkers well behind the lines. "That's why we _Mando'ade_ have a drinking chant that ends with _kote lo'shebs'ul narit_."

"What's that?"

The Mandalorian hesitated; they were on a public street and he didn't want to offend any old women or children that may have been in earshot. "You can keep your fame," he said at last. "But more coarsely."

Morran snorted and twin streams a smoke blew out of his nostrils. "Well, I was an academy graduate, top five percent of my class. Best pilot on our ship—probably in the whole kriffing sector. Never a disciplinary action to my name, not even a letter of counseling. Somehow, this son of a Sith harpy got me implicated in his spice smuggling ring. Since they were trafficking across sector lines, the Republic claimed jurisdiction; dishonorably discharged the whole lot of us, no questions asked. The ringleaders did jail time. To this day, I still don't know how he got the drugs out.

"And you know the worst part? I saved the schutta's life."

# # #

"That Firefly is headed our way, Captain," the sensor officer said, standing at Minisi's shoulder. "Full load, by the look of the mass readings."

Minisi sat up in his captain's chair. "Engines ahead full," he ordered, coming alive with the thrill of the chase. "Cut them off and come about to port." The bridge crew responded immediately and a feral grin crossed his face; discipline may have been lacking in some places with these brigands, but in others is was up to snuff. They were just as eager as he was for a big haul.

The _Dire-cat_ surged forward, reorienting onto an intercept course with the transport ship. Minisi began checking over his personal arsenal of blaster pistols, starting with his favorite, the big one he'd held on the sensor officer earlier. "Soon as they're in range, hit them with one volley from the turbolasers to overload their shields. Then ready the net."

# # #

"Captain, we've got company!" Morran shouted into the ship-wide comm then jerked the _Cuun'yaim_'s control yoke violently to the left as the gunship bored down on them.

"What is it?" Buruk demanded, bracing himself in the cockpit hatchway.

"Corellian gunship," the pilot stated, gritting his teeth as he looped the ship through an intricate corkscrew, evading turbolaser fire. "Looks like they're flying the Blazing Claw."

"_Bic ni skana'din, shabla jehavey'ir!_" Buruk swore in Mandalorian. Into the comm, he called, "Lynli, engine room! Now!" He then turned and Morran heard his boots stomping away down the corridor.

# # #

"Pilot's good, Captain," the _Dire-cat_'s helmsman reported as he matched maneuvers with the Firefly, which had started returning fire at the pirate ship.

"Of course he is," Minisi said, idly admiring his ring; its dark surface shone with an inner fire as though it had its own internal furnace. "Risant used to fly my Tee-Are-Tee's insertions and extractions all the time. At my request, of course." He chuckled. "He made a great patsy. It's a shame I couldn't have hired him even if I'd wanted to."

# # #

Morran may have been one of the best pilots in the Corellian Sector Navy, but even he was only human. Jedi who fancied themselves aces liked to talk about how they trusted their feelings when at the controls, rather than thinking about their actions; any real pilot knew that was a load of shavit because anyone who flew had to made decisions as fast as their synapses would carry them. That meant trusting their instincts and it didn't take a mystical energy field to do that.

Sometimes, though, a man's instincts, like his comrades, could betray him. Eventually he juked left when he should've gone right and the Firefly took a turbolaser blast square on the dorsal surface amidships. The_ Cuun'yaim_ had been built for speed, not heavy combat, and their shields collapsed as suddenly as if Morran had flipped a switch.

Morran started to sweat. Not that he was afraid they'd be destroyed, oh no; he was afraid they'd be disabled and taken prisoner. Losing power to the shields just made it that much easier for their attackers. "Oh Lynli," he called.

# # #

"Shields are down, Captain," the sensor officer reported.

Minisi smiled like a predator. "Fire the net."

# # #

"Lynli, Conner net!" Morran cried over the comm.

Lynli was buried up to her lekku in wires, trying to reroute systems to return power to the shields. "Sithspit!" she growled, digging her way out of the cramped alcove back into the engine room proper.

Wally, the ship's red and gold utility droid, trundled across the deck as fast as his wheels would carry him to the master cutoff switch she'd installed just for this sort of contingency. If that net caught them, it'd be lights out for the _Cuun'yaim_; the only way to prevent the ship from being disabled was to cut all power themselves. It may have had the same effect as being caught by the net but at least they'd have the option to turn everything back on at will.

The droid wasn't fast enough. Just as his servo-grip arm took hold of the switch, brilliant blue sparks crawled across every metal surface in the room. Wally squealed in terror, then his big blue photoreceptor went dark, followed by every light in the ship. Lynli gazed down at her deactivated companion and let loose with a long stream of Ryl, Huttese, and Mandalorian invective.

# # #

Minisi strode triumphantly into the disabled Firefly's cargo hold, taking a moment to admire the stacked crates of spice as his men fanned out to sweep the ship. It was a great haul, yes it was. He could almost smell the narcotic in anticipation of the credits it would bring him; he never touched the stuff, but in his CorSec days, he'd been trained to identify different types of spice by their odor in a controlled environment.

One by one, his men returned with a member of the ship's crew in tow; a violet-skinned Twi'lek woman in a greasy mechanic's coverall, a prepubescent brat in clothes three times his size, and an unconscious, red-haired man, half-dressed in sand-colored armor. "Found him suiting up, Captain," the man dragging him explained. "Just stunned him, don't worry."

And last but not least, the ship's pilot, Morran Risant. Minisi smiled up at him and said, "Hi there El-Tee. Been a while. What'd you do to your hair?"

"Never thought I'd see you again, Sergeant," Risant replied.

Risant's guard smashed the butt of his blaster rifle into the pilot's stomach, bringing him to his knees. "That's Captain to you, sleemo." He followed up with a blow to Risant's face that knocked him over onto his back.

Minisi chuckled and motioned to his crewmen who weren't busy watching the captives. They slung their weapons and started carrying the spice-laden crates through the airlock to the _Dire-cat_. To Risant, he said, "I had a real good thing going on the _Spirit_. After I served my sentence, I was surprised to find they'd kicked you out too, seeing as how you blew the whistle on me and all. Even after I was nice enough to offer to bring you in on the deal and cut you a share of the profits."

Risant rolled over onto his hands and knees and spat blood onto the catwalk. "You covered your tracks too well. How'd you do it, anyway?"

Minisi raised his eyebrows and laughed. "Imagine that, all that Academy schooling and you still can't figure out how I got the drugs out?" He snorted derisively. "Typical officer, don't know a damned thing worth knowing."

"Enlighten me."

"Remember that drug lord we nailed that first time you flew extraction for my team? The really fat one? Well the reason he was such a large gentleman was because he was wearing a neat little vest under that ridiculous uniform with pouches for about fifty kilos of spice in convenient, power pack-shaped bricks. We swapped them out for our ammo, turned them in to our man in the armory, and he moved them to our distributors."

"And the real power packs were just written off as expended ammunition," Risant finished. "Not bad."

"Not bad?" Minisi chuckled as he made his way up the stairs to where the pilot lay. "It was kriffing brilliant! Those so-called drug lords we arrested, those were just cartel flunkies surgically altered to look like the real kingpins who got to go free and keep supplying us our product."

"And that's how you took me down with you. Residue from the swap outs left behind in the ships I flew. The investigators just assumed I was in on the whole scheme."

"Well, I guess that higher education was worth something after all." He stood over Risant; unholstering his blaster pistol, he twirled it a few times and said, "No hard feelings. It's just business."

Risant nodded. "It takes a true friend to stab you in the front, huh?"

Minisi leveled the gun at the pilot's head. "That it does, mate."

Before he could squeeze the trigger, his comlink chirped. "Captain, we've got a ship approaching." It was the sensor officer and he sounded nervous. "Gozanti cruiser, transponder says it's the _Brocklander_ out of Almania, approaching fast." There was a pause and Minisi could hear the man gulp noisily. "Spast, they're red-lining their reactor, sir, heading right for us."

Minisi bit back a curse. "Everybody back to the _Dire-cat_," he ordered, turning and trotting down the stairs. "Forget the spoils, leave everything." The time it would've taken to put a blaster bolt through the snitch's brainpan would've been a delay he didn't want to risk with a pirate-killer bearing down on them. _Oh well_, he thought. _Another time._

# # #

Once Minisi and his men were away, Morran climbed to his feet as Lynli and Aerek rushed over to check on Buruk. "I'm fine, by the way, thanks for asking," he said.

"Did you send a distress signal?" the Twi'lek first mate asked, holding a vial of smelling salts under the Mandalorian's nose.

He abruptly came to, jerking into a sitting position and pinching his nose. "Did I miss the fight?" he asked disappointedly.

"No," the pilot answered Lynli nervously, making his way back to the cockpit; he had his suspicious about the nature of the _Brocklander_. The others followed, crowding in behind him as they watched the _Dire-cat_ blast away from their disabled ship in a hurry.

With the sensors down, Morran had to rely on the plain eyesight to get a look at their apparent savior. It was a big, bulky Gozanti cruiser all right, bristling with weapons and altering course to make a beeline for the fleeing pirate ship as it tried to evade. Oddly, it listed slightly to starboard, slowly spinning on its axis as it pursued, probably caused by a damaged maneuvering thruster.

"If my hunch is right," he whispered, though he wasn't sure why, "and that's a Bando Gora ship, then our being disabled may just have been a blessing in disguise."

Buruk nodded and whispered back, "Try to run and they'll chase you down."

A shiver ran up Morran's back. He hoped he was wrong and it was just a Judicial patrol that had been tipped to the pirate attack in this system by some random concerned citizen. As the Gozanti caught up with the fleeing gunship and opened fire, he doubted it.


	41. Girl All the Bad Guys Want Part 1

Buruk Kelborn fancied that fatherhood had done him a world of good. As he drilled Aerek in hand-to-hand combat techniques, he thought about the future and all the promise it held for him as a family man and semi-retired mercenary.

"So are you and Lynli going to get married, _buir_?"

_That_ he hadn't thought about. The question, asked innocently by the boy less than half his age, caught Buruk off guard and the next thing he knew, his protégé swept his leg from under him and had him down on the deck in an arm lock. He could have clenched up his neck muscles and used his superior strength to break free, but proving the boy couldn't beat him wasn't the point of the exercise; he submitted.

"I caught you daydreaming," Aerek giggled as he released his hold on his adoptive father.

"I'll say you did," Buruk replied, sitting up and massaging his shoulder theatrically. "_Ori'jate, ad'ika._ I must be getting soft-headed in my old age." He reached over and ruffled the boy's dirty-blond hair.

Aerek giggled again and said, "But seriously, are you?"

Buruk picked himself up off the deck and crossed the cargo hold to a pair of neatly folded towels resting atop a crate of spice. "Where'd you pick up an idea like that?" he asked, dabbing sweat from his brow.

Aerek followed and did likewise, emulating his _buir_. "Well, how long have you two been together?"

Buruk tried to laugh it off. "I didn't know there was a time limit on that sort of thing."

"Well you act like you like her."

"And you acted like you liked that little girl at _Tor'buir_'s funeral," Buruk countered with a grin. "So can we all come to your wedding or will it be a private affair for just the two of you?"

Aerek blushed, his cheeks turning redder than a Zeltron. "_Ke nu chayaikir ni, buir._"

Buruk knelt down and put his arm around him. "I was only joking, son. Now what's this all about, me and Lynli getting married?"

Aerek leaned against his father and said matter-of-factly, "I didn't just forget everything I knew the moment you met me. Kids are supposed to have a dad _and_ a mom."

So that was it. For whatever reason, Aerek had been living on his own in the Coruscant Undercity. Buruk had never asked him about his parents; he just assumed they were dead, or at least dead to him. "Single parents are a lot more common among _Mando'ade_," he said carefully. It wasn't as if he was totally _against_ marriage. He just had a lot of things going on. "It's just something that happens sometimes."

"But you're not a widower."

Buruk's brows shot up. "Now where'd you hear a word like that?"

"From Qate."

Ah. Of course.

"I'm just… not really sure how I feel about Lynli yet."

Aerek looked up at him, the very picture of earnestness. "Well you should try."

Buruk half-smiled and ruffled the boy's hair. _Why not?_ he thought. Having sworn off his Jedi crusade, he wouldn't mind sorting out his feelings for Lynli. "Just wait until you start to figure out girls," he chuckled.

# # #

"How are you feeling?"

Wally whirred and chirped affirmatively, turning his disk-shaped head from side to side and extending and retracting his various tool appendages. Looking back up at Lynli, he gave a satisfied toot and rolled off to work on the ship's engine.

Heaving a sigh of relief, the Twi'lek wiped her dirty hands on a cloth and took a few minutes to watch him work. He'd been shut down when the _Cuun'yaim_ had been caught in a pirate's Conner net over Troiken, completely disabling her and shutting down every electronic device onboard. She'd been worried the utility droid she'd befriended had suffered serious damage but he seemed fine now, with no memory or software corruption.

The ship itself had also come through more or less unscathed, once they'd gotten the reactor up and running after a cold start. Had they taken a hit from an ion cannon instead, she'd probably be rewiring half the systems onboard. Not a happy prospect when they were drifting aimlessly while sitting on a whole load of spice, and the only ship in the system more dangerous than the pirates that disabled them was either a Republic Judicial cruiser or a Bando Gora raider. That had been scary, just waiting, not knowing.

Her lekku twitched and suddenly Lynli realized there was someone in the doorway behind her. "Hey," Buruk said cautiously, "uh, is there… anything I can… help you… with? … By any chance?"

"Yeah, actually," she replied, taking a hydrospanner from her tool belt and poking absently around the compression coil. "Could you hold up that bulkhead over there?" She motioned with her head to the wall on her right. Then she turned around and gave him a sly grin. "What brings you back here?"

He tried to look innocent. "Wondering if you had any plans once we set down in Mos Eisley."

She stood up straight and tapped her chin with the end of the tool. "Hmm, a spaceport in the middle of the desert where the chief pastimes are drinking, gambling, and fighting, usually in that order. Gosh, I don't know. I thought I'd start by getting paid to bring in this spice shipment."

"We'll have time to kill while Morran gets the ship refueled," the Mandalorian pointed out. "Why don't we grab some _skraan_ at this restaurant called Hutt Chuba's. I hear they've got great Bantha blasters."

_Tempting me with my favorite drink?_ she thought, both impressed and suspicious at once. _Better play hard to get._ "I don't know…"

"Come on," he urged. "The place even adjoins the Foamwander Spa. It has top marks from the Mon Calamari Tourism Bureau."

Now _that_ ratcheted Lynli's suspicions right through the roof. "Okay, really, are you a Clawdite or something? Where's the real Buruk?" She tapped him experimentally on the chest. Was he actually offering to take her out on a _real_ date? And with money in his pocket so they might actually _pay_ for it this time? Just when she thought she'd seen all the wonders of the galaxy.

"I'm serious," he insisted, grabbing her hand.

She searched his scarred face for the joke that never came and finally nodded her head. "Sure, okay. Sounds nice."

He blew out his breath and smiled. "Okay."

# # #

"Buruk! Velcome back mah bukee!" Mulokhai exclaimed, climbing out of his antique, wroshyr-wood desk chair and taking to the air. The Toydarian's wings beat furiously as he hovered over his desk stacked with datapads and ledgers and holographs of his grandson. He threw his spindly arms around the Mandalorian's shoulders, embracing him in a big hug that belied his frail, elderly appearance. "I'm so glad to see you again!"

Mulokhai was glad to see anyone he employed; he had a habit of playing papa to his smugglers that endeared others to him and made them want to please him. While other crimelords like the Hutts might have killed someone who failed them, the aged Toydarian could make that same person wish they were dead just by expressing his disappointment.

He turned to Buruk's first mate. "And Lynli, it is alvays a pleasure." He gave her a hug as well and planted a kiss on both cheeks. "Please, come seet, haf some tea vith me and tell vat happened out at Troiken."

They sat before the desk and helped themselves to the flat biscuits he had laid out on a tray next to the glazed pot of dianogan tea he loved so much. "Got attacked by pirates," Buruk said through a mouthful of biscuit. He swallowed and added, "Lost a couple of crates but we brought the majority back."

"So glad to hear it," Mulokhai replied, scratching at his beard while pouring from the teapot. "Pirates are alvays a nasty lot. I vouldn't vant to lose such a reliable sheep and crew. Now, as to your payment." He held out his hand.

Buruk handed over his credit chip for the transfer and said, "You have a contact in the Republic Judicial Department." It wasn't a question.

Mulokhai nodded as he loaded the chip into a datapad. "Yah, he runs the Chommell sector office on Naboo, very vell connected. Shika Kutilles. He'll haf the information you seek." He then took a sip from his teacup and smiled, exposing his black stained tusks. "Are you sure you von't try the tea? It's very shtimulating."

"Thank you, no," Lynli answered for them, taking the credit chip back. "We have plans for the evening, so we'll be going now. Say hi to Zashiah for us."

Mulokhai waved them out as they got up and left. "Go on, enjoy your youth vhile you haf it. I shall see you again vhen you return from Naboo."

# # #

That evening, while Morran refueled the ship and Aerek played with Wally, Lynli sat across a table from Buruk and sipped at a Bantha blaster while he nursed a glass of thickheaded, black ale; her fizzy, pink-and-green beverage tickled her nose every time she lifted it to her lips and danced on her tongue with every swallow. As far as dates went—and there could be no mistaking what this outing was meant to be—it was one of the better ones she'd been on in three years.

"So, what's the occasion?" she asked. "What should we drink to?"

"To us?" he suggested.

"That's a little cliché," she said with a smile. "How about, 'to our youth?'"

Buruk tapped his glass against hers. "May we grow old together." After they both drank, he set his glass down and took her by the hand. "As for the occasion, we've been together for a couple years now… I like where it's going…"

He locked eyes with her and smiled anxiously. _He's really worked himself up to this, hasn't he?_ "Thinking about the future?" she asked aloud.

"Yeah, about what I want out of it. What you might want out of it."

"You're the first person to ask," Lynli said. "When I was a slave it didn't matter and then it was just about credits all the time." She shrugged, unsure. "I think I might like to open my own mechanics shop."

"There's good money in that," he replied encouragingly. "You're the best I've ever known."

She let out a breath. "Well what about you? What do you want out of the future?"

"I was thinking a homestead on _Manda'yaim_ where I can keep my boots on the ground for a good long while. Raise some shatual for slaughter, cultivate some crops; maybe someplace with a lake where I can fish."

Lynli chuckled. "A Mandalorian warrior spending all day in a fishing boat? Not much of a fight."

He drew himself up seriously and said, "Fishing is a life and death struggle between man and fish." She eyed him for a moment before he finally broke down and started laughing himself.

"Those sound like nice dreams," she assured him and gave his hand a squeeze.

"They sure do."

"After you find Kex?"

He shifted uncomfortably. He tenaciously clung to that one vendetta, the only thing he had left of his previous life. "After I find Kex," he nodded, averting his eyes.

She lifted his chin up so he faced her again and gave him a warm smile. "Well as long as we have something to look forward to." She then leaned forward and gave him a kiss, their first since they'd met so long ago that it might as well have been another lifetime.

When she pulled back, his eyes were cast down at the tabletop. "Something wrong?" she asked.

"Just waiting to see if I pass out this time," he said, meeting her eyes with a grin.

"You _shabuir_," she laughed and gave his braid a playful tug before leaning in for another kiss.

Later, Buruk lay naked beneath a thin sheet, waiting for he knew not what. Dim lights cast the room in tantalizing shadows and soft, meditative music played from speakers concealed in the ceiling. The smell of incense burning filled the air and stung his nostrils. "I just want to let you know," he said nervously, "that I'm _way_ outside my comfort zone here."

"Just relax, you big baby," Lynli replied, her voice muffled by a pillow. She lay facedown on the table next to him, also naked, also covered only by a thin sheet. "Trust me, you'll enjoy this. And roll over before the masseurs get here."

# # #

After an hour of having his muscles kneaded and worked in ways he'd never experienced before, Buruk stepped out of the Foamwander Spa's dressing room and found Lynli waiting for him. "Well?" she asked. "What did you think?"

"That was, uh, enjoyable," he said. It had felt amazing, in fact, and he wasn't sure what to make of it. _Aruetiise_ were hedonists, pampering themselves like that all the time, so he'd heard. Mandalorians preferred simpler pleasures.

"Careful," she warned him, lightly punching his arm. "You might actually enjoy yourself for a change."

"Well, we wouldn't want that, would we?" he laughed as they made their way back out to the restaurant. Then, offering his arm, he asked, "Nightcap?"

"Love one," she said, taking it and following him to the bar.

Behind them, a voice called, "Kazmer'ra?" It was an alias Lynli had used before.

They spun at once, Buruk's hand slapping uselessly against his empty thigh; he'd gone out unarmed. Romantic, but stupid; in a town like Mos Eisley, if this guy had a grudge to settle, they were as good dead.

Then, to Buruk's surprise, Lynli said, "Titus? Is it really you?"

"Thank the Lord you're alive!" said a tall, handsome man with platinum white hair and eyes so blue they were practically silver. He swept forward and put his arms around Lynli, embracing her like a long-lost lover. Despite the simple clothes he wore, he practically oozed regality that made the Mandalorian sick.

The Twi'lek used her momentum to spin them around where they met, catching Buruk's eyes and mouthing "play along" to him. That made him feel a little better; this was just some schmuck she'd conned and just happened to run into again.

The look this Titus, obviously an Echani, gave her immediately set Buruk to bristling, though. He gazed passionately into her golden eyes and said, "I thought I'd never see you again. When you didn't return after I paid the ransom, I feared the worst."

"Shhh, don't talk like that," she whispered, giving him a squeeze. "I'm here now."

"What happened to you?" he asked desperately.

"I was sold on Malastare," she sobbed, burying her face in his chest. "It was horrible. I'd all but given up hope until this man offered to buy my freedom. I've been working for him here in Mos Eisley ever since."

Titus looked casually over at Buruk and, almost dismissively, said, "Forgive me, where are my manners? I'm Titus Vorenus, of the Thyrsus Voreni."

_Thyrsus?_ Buruk thought. Siit'ad_, is this guy a Sun Guard?_ He did a quick visual inspection of the man's clothing and, sure enough, spotted a lapel pin depicting the cult's overlapping red suns emblem. "Buruk Kelborn," he said aloud, forcing himself to offer his hand to shake. The Sun Guards of Thyrsus weren't just a bunch of religious nut jobs, they were also some of the Mandalorians' biggest competitors; Buruk was sure that if it came down to it, Jaster and _Tor'buir_ would have put their differences aside to fight them together.

"You have my thanks," Vorenus replied, ignoring the hand. "I can hardly repay you for returning my beloved Kazmer'ra to me, but I shall try." He reached into his tunic and pulled out a wallet. "Here," he said, placing a large stack of bills into Buruk's hand. It had to be at least fifty thousand. "That should be enough to pay off whatever debt she may have incurred with you."

Turning back to Lynli, he said, "I have missed you so, my darling."

"And I you," she said sweetly, nuzzling his chest. It was all Buruk could do not to strike him and shove the wad of cash down his throat.

Turning, the Sun Guard led Lynli out of the restaurant, leaving Buruk behind, fuming. Storming out into the street, he headed for the ship, wanting very much to shoot something. _What's a Sun Guard doing on Tatooine?_ he wondered. _What's a Sun Guard got to do with Lynli? Why did I just stand there and let them leave instead of stomping his _epan_ out?_

When he got back to the ship, he found Morran outside, leaning against the hull and smoking a cigarette. "Buruk and Lynli go out and only Buruk comes back," the pilot with a laugh. "What'd you do?"

"Not now," the Mandalorian warned as he stepped through the airlock.

In the cargo hold, Aerek was playing tag with Wally. When Buruk entered, he paused mid-stride to ask, "How was dinner?" Then, realizing his father was alone, his brow furrowed. "Wait, where's Lynli?" He looked crestfallen.

"I don't know," Buruk admitted as he trudged up the stairway to his quarters. _She'd better call!_

# # #

Lynli had never been more surprised than she had the moment she heard Titus call out to her. She'd never expected to see him again after collecting her own ransom and heading out for the stars. What he was doing on Tatooine, she hadn't a clue, but it couldn't be good whatever it was. She had to find out.

After leaving Hutt Chuba's, they'd retired to the _Testudo_, his personal Ghtroc Class 720 freighter. On the outside, it's streamlined hull gave it the appearance of a massive sea turtle while inside, calm turquoise panels, stylish hardwood trim, and quality artwork covered the bulkhead walls and access panels, transforming the _Testudo_ from a rugged, utilitarian travel vehicle to the equivalent of a space-faring up-scale hotel.

"Champagne?" Titus offered, now dressed in regal finery and holding out a bubbling glass in the opulent lounge. He'd wasted no time changing into something "less plebian" as he put it as soon as they'd boarded.

"Thank you," she said, accepting the glass from him. Taking a sip, she thought that it didn't taste nearly as good as the Bantha blaster she'd had with Buruk. _Ugh, I wonder what's going through his head right now. He's probably thinking the worst. Damn it! Things were going so well._ She struggled not to let her worry show on her face. She had to act relieved to at last be reunited with her lost love. "What brings you to Tatooine?"

"I'd like to say I was turning the galaxy upside down trying to find you," he said woefully, pouring a glass of his own and downing it in one gulp. "But alas, that's not the case. I've been called upon by the Lord for a most sacred mission to assure his ascension."

"That's… good news," she assured him.

He mistook her caution for disappointment. "Kazmer'ra, my darling, rest assured, I thought of you every day we've been apart." He took her glass and set it down on a low end table beside the sofa on which they sat, then took both of her hands in his. He gazed into her eyes, looking as though he might shed tears of joy. "I love you. Finding you here is a sign that the Lord's favor is upon me! It must be! With you once more at my side, my success is guaranteed."

She wanted to laugh in his face; luckily, she'd had plenty of practice stifling that urge the first time she'd run across this fanatic and his antics. "You'll take me with you?" she asked.

"Of course, my love," Titus assured her. "I swear it; we'll never be apart again." He regarded her for a moment, frowning distastefully at her dress. "Once we arrive there, I'll be sure to get you something more suitable to wear. After all, when my success brings me promotion to Thychani Commander, we shall be wed."

Lynli made herself blush. "Titus, you know I can never give you an heir." _Please let that reality be a deal breaker._

"Perhaps," he admitted, his high spirits temporarily dampened. They returned quickly enough, however. "But the Lord has told the Supreme Sun Guardian that the son of suns will be discovered very soon, and that he will bring forth children that will change the galaxy forever." He paused. "Rumor amongst the legions has it that he will be of the higher officers, commander and up."

"I see," she said. _So that's why it's so important for you to get that promotion… _Out load, she asked, "Why would only such a select few have a possibility to be the son of suns?"

He blinked, for a moment unsure. Then he replied confidently, "Only the very best among us could be he, of course."

Lynli nodded. "Yes, of course." Then, placing her hand on his cheek, she said, "I have faith in you, darling." He reached up and put his hand over hers, smiling affectionately at her. It made her lekku writhe uncomfortably.

# # #

Later, while Titus snored blissfully in the master bedroom, Lynli made her way down the corridor, her bare feet padding silently on the plush amber carpet, to the access ladder leading up to the cockpit. Any information on his mission would be in the main computer up there and she'd bet credits to clamshells she could slice his security system.

Sitting down at the forward crew station, she took a moment to familiarize herself with the complex control layout Titus had had built for himself. He'd spent a fortune customizing the Ghtroc with automated systems, reducing its crew requirement to a single person. The pilot's seat itself—_more like throne_—had been mounted on a swivel mechanism that could move it about the cockpit to any of the four crew stations.

First, she took a multitool from her pocket and leaned down, popping the wood paneling from the base of the console, then opening the access panel, exposing wires and circuitry. Snipping a few leads, she isolated the main comm network from the rest of the system. That should keep the access portal in Titus' suite from recognizing the electronic break-in. With that done, she brought herself back up to the control board and powered on the computer.

Ghostly pale light flickered across Lynli's violet skin as a log-on screen appeared. _Please, I've been locked out by professionals_, she scoffed. She didn't bother trying to guess the password; that would have left a record on the system that made it obvious someone who wasn't supposed to was trying to gain access. Instead, she rebooted the system, holding a thin strip of metal wire between two leads on the main circuit board, sending a false signal to the CPU. This time when the computer flickered to life, it bypassed the log-on screen completely. She allowed herself a tight, triumphant smile.

It melted away when she found the comm log she was looking for. A scaled hologram of a man in a heavy dark cloak, his face shrouded by a hood, stood atop the control panel and spoke to her as though she were Titus. He gave her his orders in a low, scratchy voice and then simply faded away to nothingness.

_Oh _osik, she thought.

# # #

Buruk sat on the edge of his bunk with his head in his hands. He barely noticed his comlink chirping at him until the third chime. It was Lynli. _Now what does she want?_ he wondered angrily. "What?"

"I'm aboard Titus' ship," she whispered. Well _that_ certainly made him feel better.

"What the _haran_ are you doing, Lynli?" he hissed. "That guy's a Sun Guard."

"I know."

"Those guys are religious fanatics."

"I know."

"Sith cultists, Lynli."

"I _know_!"

He paused several heartbeats, then demanded, "What were you doing with a _Sun Guard_?"

"I had a thing for dangerous guys, alright?" she answered. "Why do you think I stuck around you this long?"

He wanted to say something to that but was having trouble articulating his anger just then. Instead, he took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and asked, "So what's the score? Where do we stand?"

"I'm with you," she assured him. "I knew whatever reason Titus had for being on Tatooine, it wasn't good so I wanted to get a look at his ship's logs. I can't get out of here without alerting him so you need to head for Naboo without me. Right now, Buruk."

"Why?"

"He's going to kill your contact, Shika Kutilles."

_To be continued…_


	42. Girl All the Bad Guys Want Part 2

They came at him from all sides, lightning fast and razor precise.

Titus Vorenus knelt on the padded floor of the _Testudo_'s port cargo hold, dressed only in a pair of loose-fitting trousers, hands resting on his thighs, eyes closed. His bare chest rose and fell methodically with each carefully measured breath. Converting the hold into a training dojo had been but one of the many upgrades he'd demanded for the ship. There he kept alive the ancient arts of the Echani Firedances, warriors whose ritualized combat blurred the line between battle and dance and whose passionate displays had eventually given rise to the Sun Guards of Thyrsus.

His eyes snapped open and in one motion, he snatched up his weapon, an Echani firebrand, and activated it. The twin vibroblades at either end snapped out and gave a low hum as they heated to several hundred degrees, while the leather-wrapped, phrik alloy handle remained cool to the touch.

Titus spun the polearm with fluid poise, landing an exact strike through the nearest attacker's left eye. Twirling as he leapt, he deftly avoided a stab from the second attacker and spun the blade inside the first's cranium. In the same motion, he brought the firebrand's opposite blade arcing up, bisecting the next opponent from crotch to collar.

Retracting the blade embedded in the first attacker's skull back into the weapon's grip, he tumbled beneath a pair of blaster shots and planted the hilt in the floor, using it as a pivot point, sweeping the legs from under his third opponent. On the way to the floor, the falling attacker fired again, harmlessly, into the ceiling. Titus regained his feet with a rising pirouette, decapitating the fourth. Finally, with the remainder of his momentum, he completed the turn and drove the pike through his downed enemy's chest.

In the span of ten seconds, four mutilated dueling droids lay at his feet. Only live opponents could have made him feel more glorious as he basked in his victory, sculpted muscles glistening with the first beads of sweat on his alabaster skin. He was half-tempted to take a bow. _Yes_, he thought triumphantly. _Regard me!_

Across the room, Kazmer'ra applauded, to his annoyance, and the spell was broken. "Holocam off," he ordered, struggling to keep the irritation out of his voice. Shutting off the firebrand's remaining blade, he strutted to the bench where his love waited with a fluffy white towel and a glass of crystal-clear water.

"A splendid performance," she assured him. "Truly masterful. But why do you record your sparring sessions?"

Patting his forehead dry, he answered, "To look for flaws in my technique, darling. Yes, I know it's hard to believe they could exist, but it's true." He flashed a charming grin at her. "And occasionally I like to enhance it by adding in a bit of opera. I confess I fancy myself something of a danseur."

She smiled enticingly and stroked his sinewy arms. "Well that's a conceit I'll just have to live with." Then she propped herself up on her toes to give him a kiss and he wrapped his arms around her.

"Holocam on," he said, unfastening her dress and letting it drop to the training room floor.

# # #

"Can't this bucket of bolts go any faster?" Buruk Kelborn demanded, leaning over the pilot's shoulder as they hurtled through hyperspace, glaring at the velocity indicator.

"I'm giving her all she's got, Captain!" Morran snapped, a cigarette clamped between his teeth. "I'm a pilot, not a magician. We run any hotter, we risk a burnout, and then we'll be going nowhere."

Buruk growled and threw his hands up in frustration. He was running out of crew to man the _Cuun'yaim_; it was down to Morran, Aerek, W4-L3, and himself. He had to reach Naboo before Lynli and her old—_new?_—boyfriend did or his contact would be dead; he couldn't exactly beat information out of a corpse.

Alive, Shika Kutilles could tell him exactly what he wanted to know. As a colonel in the Republic Judicial Forces, he headed the Chommell sector office on Naboo and could give him the name and location of the prison where his comrades Qate, Ganhuff, and Maalku were being held. For a fifty-thousand-credit bribe, he might even do so willingly.

Buruk reached into his pocket and juggled the roll of bills the Sun Guard, Vorenus, had given him, shortly before walking out of Hutt Chuba's restaurant with Lynli. _Worst way to end a date_, the Mandalorian thought disgustedly. _How could she just go away with him like that?_ She'd commed him later to tell him it had just been to get a look at Vorenus' ship logs, but it still stung.

_When I get to Naboo, I'm going to find Kutilles, learn what I need to know, and then I'm going to find Vorenus and beat his smug, rich face in._ Turning to leave the cockpit, he said over his shoulder, "Step on it, Morran."

# # #

Titus stepped out of the sonic shower, refreshed after his morning exercise. He took a moment to admire himself in the full-length mirror, flexing and posing, before redressing in a silken yellow tunic, brown trousers, and black highboots. He finished off the ensemble with a red velvet capelet draped around his shoulders. Admiring himself once more, he thought, _Hello there, Commander. You're looking preeminent today._

Before rejoining Kazmer'ra in the _Testudo_'s lounge, he returned to the master suite to check on his datapad. The microtracer he'd slipped into the money roll he'd handed over to her ugly companion on Tatooine was active. "That's interesting," he muttered to himself. According to the coordinates recorded, it was on a course for the Naboo system and had left Tatooine hours before he had. Of course the _Testudo_ had already overcome it. _He must have a very unreliable vessel_, he thought, narrowing his eyes._ Still, most suspicious._

# # #

After three days of travel, the _Testudo_ arrived in Theed, Naboo's capital city. True to his word, Titus had forbidden her to leave the ship until he'd returned with an entire new wardrobe for her. The moment Lynli stepped through the airlock in something airy and fashionable she was blown away by the beauty of her surroundings. The landscape and architecture flowed together as one. Verdant, grass-carpeted hills rolled on the horizon, giving way to emerald domes and golden arches and quaint, cobblestone streets, all with decorative planters and hanging vines with big, spade-shaped leaves and bright blossoming flowers. Sunlight glittered off every window, speeder, and fountain, bathing the city in an exquisite halo of splendor. This truly was what paradise must have looked like.

"Breathtaking, isn't it?" Titus asked, standing at her shoulder, his suitcase in one hand.

Awestruck, she could barely manage to nod dumbly.

He chuckled and offered her his free arm, leading her down the boarding ramp. Lynli felt as though she'd stepped into a fairytale, wearing the finest dress and gliding along on the arm of a prince. For a moment, she wondered why she'd ever left this life behind. Then she felt instantly guilty, reminding herself that Buruk was either here or on his way. She couldn't let herself be blinded by the shine; it was all false, a gilded cage. She was there with a religious fanatic who intended to murder a man who could help free her friends.

As they boarded a hoverbus into the heart of the city, she draped her lekku casually over her shoulders, glancing about in hopes of catching a glimpse of red hair or gold armor. She kept looking in vain all the way to the luxury hotel Titus had booked in the palace district. Like everything else he spent money on, it was large and opulent, tastefully decorated in the classic style.

Excusing herself, Lynli locked herself in the refresher and pulled out her comlink to call Buruk. There was no answer, so she left a message for him. "Buruk, it's Lynli," she whispered. "I don't know if you've made it to Naboo yet, but we've just arrived. It is now…" She checked her chronometer and rattled off the galactic standard time and date. "We're staying at the Veruna Hotel, on King Veruna Street in Theed. Get the information and get me out of here."

Pocketing her comlink, she stepped out into the hall and looked around for Titus. "Out here, dearest," he called. On the balcony overlooking the city, he held two glasses of dark red wine. Handing her one as she stepped out to join him, he said, "To us." She rolled her eyes as he tipped his head back to drink, then quickly lifted her own glass to her lips.

"The view is more beautiful from up here," Lynli remarked, looking out across the Theed rooftops. She looked back at Titus, saw his face set in a hard mask.

"I have to ask you to remain here tonight," he said, his tone making it very clear this wasn't a request at all.

"Your mission?" she asked, forcing herself to sound disappointed. "How long will you be?"

He responded to her disappointment by turning apologetic. "It shouldn't take more than two nights," he assured her. "Then we'll have time to enjoy ourselves. I promise."

She nodded solemnly. "The Lord's will be done."

He took her in his arms and kissed her forehead. "I am the instrument of that will," he whispered.

# # #

As soon as the _Cuun'yaim _left hyperspace, Buruk's comlink chirped. It was a message from Lynli. "Buruk, it's Lynli," it said. "I don't know if you've made it to Naboo yet, but we've just arrived." She gave him the time and date. He checked his chronometer; she'd sent the message over twenty hours ago.

"Theed," he told Morran as the ship broke Naboo's atmosphere. "They're in Theed."

"I'm there," the pilot answered, rotating the control yoke to bring the ship on course for the capital. Strangely enough, he wasn't smoking for once.

As they came in for a landing, Buruk suited up. It was late afternoon, local time, but his armor didn't lend itself to stealth at any time of day. If he was going to go toe to toe with a Sun Guard, he needed that extra edge his _beskar'gam_ provided. He checked his weapons and other equipment, feeling a pang of loss over his destroyed jetpack. Then, tucking his helmet under one arm, he turned to Aerek and said, "Morran and I are going to go bring Lynli back, okay? I need you stay here with Wally and guard the ship. Keep the hatch locked and if any strange men, especially ones in black or yellow armor, come near, you shoot first, understand?" The boy nodded and gave his father a hug. Buruk squeezed the child tight once, then donned his helmet.

Morran followed him out of the hold, a blaster pistol strapped to his hip and a holdout blaster tucked into his flight vest. A pair of macrobinoculars dangled from a strap around his neck. "What's the plan?" he asked as they strode across the landing platform.

"I'm going to the Judicial office," Buruk answered, his voice filtered through the helmet's comlink. "You stake out the hotel. If you see him leave, give me two clicks on the comm and I'll be there in ten minutes."

"What if you don't have ten minutes?"

"That's what your gun is for," he answered. "Stall him."

The pilot's brows shot up and he stopped mid-stride. "Stall him?" Buruk kept on walking, poncho billowing in the breeze. "You know, I don't think I like this plan," he called after the Mandalorian.

"You wanted to get out of the ship more."

As he caught back up to Buruk, Morran muttered, "Well I didn't plan on being a hero."

"I'm a Mandalorian," Buruk chuckled humorlessly. "We don't have a word for hero."

"And I'm Corellian," Morran nodded. "Never tell me the odds."

# # #

In the dead of night, Titus returned to the _Testudo_ to retrieve his armor and make a last minute comm transmission. He'd spent the previous evening scouting the Judicial office, creating a mental map of its entrances and exits, watching the employees and learning their habits. Like most centers of bureaucracy, it ran on routine and he could take advantage of that.

Titus slipped out of the hotel unnoticed, garbed in a hooded black cloak that concealed his face. He'd noticed a man in spacer's garb, with tattooed arms, watching the hotel through a pair of macrobinoculars. There was no way of telling for sure that he was watching for Titus but the Sun Guard made a mental note to take care of him on his return, just to be sure.

Kneeling on the receptor plate in the _Testudo_'s hidden aft compartment, he bowed his head reverently as the image of his master, the Dark Lord of the Sith, materialized before him.

"What is it?" the Sith Lord demanded, his face hidden within the recess of his hooded cloak.

"Lord Sidious," Titus breathed. "I'm almost in position to eliminate Colonel Kutilles as you will."

"Excellent," the cloaked figure, Sidious, croaked. "Without him to alert the Republic, the Senate will be slow in responding to the impending invasion. They'll become bogged down in procedure and the queen will have no choice but to accept the occupation."

"Yes my Lord," the Sun Guard hurried to agree. "But the queen will still be able to contact her senator on Coruscant. Should he not be eliminated as well?"

"Senator Palpatine is of no concern to you, Sun Guard," Sidious warned. Then, a faint smile touched his lips. "I assure you, he will soon get what's coming to him."

"As you command," Titus replied, bowing his head lower, and the image faded out of existence as the transmission was cut.

Titus stood and went to the wardrobe where he stored his armor. Midnight black from head to toe, save a goldenrod cape, it concealed all manner of high-tech weaponry, from ejectable blades, to dart shooters, to a flame projector. The cone-shaped helmet appeared similar to the Republic Senate Guards' save without a crest, and possessed countless enhancements, including thermal imaging and long-range scanning. Unlike his people's Echani forebears, the Thyrsians relied heavily on their armor as well as their superior fighting skills, which were second to none.

Titus let a predatory smile spread across his face. Shika Kutilles was as good as dead.

# # #

Naboo didn't see many mercenaries. Passersby gave Buruk sidelong glances but didn't make an effort to avoid him as quickly as possible like he was used to on wilder planets. His weapons were all concealed beneath his poncho and he wasn't carrying anything larger than his pistols. Still, the menacing power of the T-visor didn't seem to have an effect on these sheltered, peace-loving folk. _I'm sure that'll change if I run into Vorenus_, he thought, shouldering his way through the crowd.

"I've been out here for hours," Morran complained through the comlink in Buruk's helmet. "I haven't seen any sign of this guy either coming or going."

"I'm almost to the Judicial office now," the Mandalorian replied as an elderly couple sidestepped him. "Try giving Lynli a call."

He caught wary looks from the two guards on duty the moment he entered the building; they both sat up a little straighter as he approached. Buruk rolled his eyes under his helmet. He didn't have time to be hassled by the likes of them; he dashed through the scanner and kept right on going when it started screeching about his unauthorized items.

"Stop right there!" one of the guards shouted after him, snapping off a shot from his stun blaster. It missed by a kilometer and Buruk darted around a corner, drawing his own guns and returning fire, one shot each. They drilled the guards square in the chest and they slumped to the polished marble floor, nerves temporarily fried.

A short ride up the turbolift brought him to a small reception area. The hennish little woman threw her hands in the air the moment she saw the Mandalorian striding through the room with blasters drawn. "I'm here to help," he assured her as he passed, though he doubted he sounded very reassuring.

The doors to Kutilles' office were big, thick slabs of wood, each cut from a single piece. _I wonder if this planet has no real defense force because they're pacifists or because they're blowing the budget on extravagances like this_, he thought. As soon as Buruk pushed them open, he caught a blaster bolt square in the chest and slumped to the floor.

"Ha! Take that, assassin!" Kutilles barked.

"I'm not the assassin," Buruk groaned, climbing back to his feet. Kutilles gasped as he watched the man he'd just shot get back up and dropped his pistol onto his desk. Buruk rubbed the sore spot on his chest and glared at the old patrician from beneath his helmet. "I'm here to keep you alive."

"What's going on?" the colonel demanded.

"We have a mutual friend," Buruk explained. "Mulokhai, a Toydarian jeweler on Tatooine; he sent me to find you." He turned and shut the doors behind him, locking them. "I have the names of three people being held in a Republic prison. I need you to tell me where they're being held."

"You said you're not the assassin," Kutilles said, blanching. "Does that mean there's another coming after me?"

"Yes, he's coming to keep you quiet," Buruk lied. In truth, he had no idea why Vorenus wanted to kill the Judicial officer and he really didn't care. "I need you to tell me right now before he gets here. It's absolutely crucial."

Kutilles nodded. "All right." He went to the datapad on his desk and began punching in commands. "What are the names?"

"Ganhuff Riscan, Qate Jularc, and Maalku Tekot," Buruk answered. When Kutilles eyed him cautiously, he added, "Hurry."

Several tense seconds went by as the old man tapped more keys. "I could use a drink," he muttered and reached for a nearby glass.

"Oh no, you don't," Buruk said, grabbing him by his wrist and snatching the glass out of his hand. "Here." He handed him a canteen from his belt.

At last, Kutilles looked up at Buruk and said, "All right. I have it."

As soon as the words passed his lips, the window exploded, hurling shards of transparisteel and shattered wood and masonry through the office while igniting the frame and drapes. "_Osikyr!_" Buruk cursed, throwing the old colonel to the floor, flipping his pistols' selector from stun to kill, and firing several shots through the burning portal. The datapad went skittering across the desk, tumbling over the side opposite where he stood as the fire quickly spread to the wallpaper and a nearby bookshelf stacked with volumes of law.

A sudden impact sent Buruk stumbling back; his foot caught on Kutilles' prone form and he toppled over, cracking the back of his head against the floor. He looked to the window in time to see Vorenus, decked out in matte black Sun Guard armor and a mustard yellow cape, fly through the smoke and flames to land in a crouch before him.

"I always hoped to face one of your kind, Mandalorian," he sneered as he rose up to his full height. "I feared after Galidraan I'd never get the chance. Pity you weren't more of a challenge." He aimed his fist at Buruk and a small nozzle popped out of his gauntlet. Buruk's eyes went wide as he rolled away from the tongue of fire that came spitting out at him. It crawled across the floor, adding to the growing inferno and barely missing the Mandalorian.

By now, a quarter of the office was aflame and the fire continued to spread unchecked. I had no effect on the two mercenaries in their sealed, temperature-controlled suits, but Kutilles remained at risk. He lay sprawled on the floor, bathed in sweat, eyes closed. Shab_, there's too much smoke in here_, Buruk thought as he scrambled to his feet. _Man'll suffocate before Vorenus has a chance to kill him._

He threw himself at the Sun Guard, hoping to bowl him over, only to miss entirely as Vorenus danced away. He spun around and punched; Vorenus ducked and sidestepped to the left. Buruk tried to backhand him but again the assassin avoided his blow, hooking his arm around Buruk's and landing a throat chop with his other hand.

Buruk staggered back, gagging. _Nimble freak_, he thought in frustration. Vorenus then stood up straight and beckoned the Mandalorian forward. Buruk growled, grabbed a piece of flaming debris, and swung it hard. To his surprise, Vorenus actually _caught_ the torch, grabbed his wrist, and twisted, wrenching the makeshift weapon from his hand. He then continued to twist, pulling Buruk's arm around behind his back. With his free hand, he struck the Mandalorian, once in the kidney and once in the ribs. Buruk felt something crack and went weak in the knees.

"I used to wonder how, with your reputation, your people managed to lose every war you've ever fought against the Jedi," Vorenus sneered. "Now I know."

That got Buruk's blood pumping. Gritting his teeth, he threw his head backward and was rewarded with a sharp crack as their helmets smacked against each other. Vorenus grunted with surprise and his grip slackened just enough. Buruk spun, took hold of the Sun Guard's arm, and pulled him over, hurling him out the window he'd entered by with a fireman's throw.

He then took a moment to regain his bearings. The whole room was on fire now and the ceiling looked as though it would collapse any second. Wasting no more time, Buruk knelt down beside Kutilles and hefted him over his shoulder, carrying him out the door. Out of immediate danger, he limped for the nearest stairwell, trailing smoke from his singed poncho.

All the way down to the alley between the Judicial building and the neighboring parking structure, Buruk's side felt like he was still in the burning office. He kept going until the sound of blood roaring in his ears drowned out the shrill whine of emergency vehicles, then sank to his knees onto the permacrete. He lay Kutilles aside and tore off his helmet, drinking in the fresh, cool air inside the parking structure.

"Wake up old man," he said, patting the colonel's face. He didn't stir. Buruk checked for a pulse; nothing. He must have asphyxiated during the fight.

The Mandalorian slumped onto his back, letting out a frustrated groan and stared up at the bare grey ceiling. Osik. Nothing had gone right.

Then Morran's voice issued from the helmet's comlink. "Buruk, I spotted Lynli on the balcony. I'm headed up to meet her."

Buruk's head snapped around in the forgotten helmet's direction. With his objective complete, Vorenus would be heading back to the hotel room. "_Shab!_" Snatching up the helmet, he left Kutilles' body behind and started running.

# # #

"It'd probably be a good idea to hurry," Morran said, standing by the door with his blaster drawn. "How long ago did you say this Titus guy left?"

"A few hours," Lynli answered, stuffing valuables into a satchel as fast as she could; she wanted it to look like a break-in, not an easy thing to fake when you knew where all the best things were kept but had to think like someone who didn't. She'd already gone out to the balcony and broken the transparisteel door from the outside.

"He could be back any minute," he insisted.

"Alright, let's get going," she said at last, hiking up her fancy dress and kicking over an end table.

"Finally," he breathed a sigh a relief. He opened the door, stepped out into the hall, and walked right into Titus' chest. Lynli watched in horror as, before Morran could stagger back more than a step, the Sun Guard lashed out and disarmed him.

"Hmph, I thought you looked like a petty thief," Titus scoffed.

"Yeah, that's it," Morran laughed uneasily, nursing his wrist. "Just a petty thief. Thanks for setting me straight; I'll just be going—"

"Inside."

"That's exactly what I was going to say," the pilot said, backing slowly into the hotel room and away from the imposing black figure.

Titus turned his masked face to Lynli. "Kazmer'ra, why ever are you holding that bag?"

Lynli's voice caught in her throat; she was too terrified to speak. She just stood there staring dumbly. _What are you doing?_ her mind screamed at her. _He's going to kill Morran, then figure out what's really going on and kill you too! Then when Buruk gets here too late, he'll also be a dead man! You're not just a con artist; you know how to fight, so fight!_

Finally, she snapped out of it. Yelling at the top of her lungs, she reared back and hurled the bag of stolen goods at Titus. It must have surprised him that she'd attack; he hesitated and the bag hit him in the left shoulder when he finally tried to dodge. Lynli didn't waste any time. She lunged, swept his legs, and then, while she had him on his back, drove her heel square into his chest.

He grabbed her foot and twisted, wrenching her aside onto her hands and knees. "Kazmer'ra!" he shouted, regaining his feet. "What's the meaning of this?" He towered over her, fists balled angrily at his sides. "How dare you strike me?"

"Stop calling me Kazmer'ra," she hissed, slamming her elbow into his solar plexus. He wheezed and doubled over. "I'm through living a lie!" She grabbed his neck in a collar tie and drove her knee up into the same spot. "I faked my own kidnapping just to get away from you!"

"Harlot!" Titus snapped, breaking her hold and slapping her across the face. "How dare you treat me this way after how good I've been to you?" He balled his fist and swung.

Before the punch could land, a pair of arms snaked around him, hooking his elbow and his neck. "Some gentleman you are," a familiar voice said.

"Buruk!" Lynli called.

"Ah, so it's you," Titus sneered. To Lynli, he said, "It seems no one can resist your charms, Kazmer'ra." He ejected a jagged blade from his left gauntlet and dragged it across Buruk's side.

The Mandalorian bit back a cry of pain and released his hold. Titus turned and, with great ceremony, drew his signature weapon from over his shoulder. "Regard me!" he declared. "This firebrand was forged during the Mandalorian Wars by the finest Echani sword smiths. It was wielded in battle by General Yusanis himself—"

"Alright, alright, I get it," Buruk interrupted, holding his bleeding side, and rolled his eyes. "Why do you sword people always have to go on and on about how _kandosii_ your swords are? Just swing the damn thing."

"Hmph, as you wish. I'd have been casting pearls before swine anyway." At the push of a button, the twin blades shot out from either end of the meter-long hilt and hummed to life. He swung the weapon about in several flashy arcs, demonstrating his expertise, before striking a stance and beckoning his enemy forward.

At his arrogant signal, Buruk drew his blaster and fired. The shot took Titus in the chest plate, knocking him off his feet. The Sun Guard coughed and wheezed violently as though the wind had been knocked out of him and clutched his chest, squirming in agony on the floor.

Buruk holstered his gun and stood over the fallen assassin. "Don't be such a baby; it's just a flesh wound," he told him, pulling his helmet off and tossing it aside.

Titus glared hatefully at the Mandalorian as he dug into a belt pouch. Taking out the large wad of credits, he held it before the Sun Guard's face. "Her name's Lynli. And she's not for sale," he told him. Buruk then grabbed him by the jaw and forced the money into his mouth. "And this," he snarled, grabbing hold of Titus' shoulders, "is because I just don't like you." A dull, wet crack echoed through the room, followed by Titus' scream.

Looking up at the Twi'lek, the murderous look in Buruk's eyes softened and he wiped away the blood on his forehead. "Coming home?" he asked hopefully.

"Of course," Lynli answered.

"Oh, and Titus," she added, hefting her sack of loot over one shoulder. He clutched at his nose and squeezed his eyes shut as blood poured down his chin. "My kidnapping wasn't all I faked." Then, putting her arm around Buruk's waist—partly to help support him as he limped along—they left the assassin behind, followed closely by Morran who still rubbed at his sore wrist.

Behind them, they heard Titus shout nasally, "Run, Buruk! Mark my words; I shall hunt you to the ends of the galaxy and beyond! Your children shall live in fear of me! Your children's children!"

Buruk just shook his head and asked, "Could he be a bigger cliché?"

"Nope," Lynli answered and gave him a squeeze. He hissed at the sudden pressure and she immediately let up. "Sorry."

# # #

The next day, Buruk woke up late. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he staggered into the galley where he found Lynli sitting at the table hunched over what looked like a lump of molten slag. "Good afternoon," she said, not looking up while he went to the dispenser and poured himself a cup of steaming hot caf. "How you feeling?"

"Hurts," he mumbled, placing a hand tenderly over the bandage wrapping his chest. "I got stabbed, you know." Aerek had gotten some experience stitching wounds the night before. "Sooner we get the doc back, the better." Going back to square one on their comrades' rescue made him wince more than the ache in his side.

"Thanks for coming after me last night," Lynli said. "It was very gallant of you."

"Well… I'm not just going to let him steal my girl," he said defensively, sitting down across from her. "I miss anything?"

"Titus never came looking for us, if that's what you're asking." She continued to poke at the half-melted lump of plastoid and circuitry, plugging in leads from a datapad. "Aerek's up in the cockpit with Morran, by the way. Getting his first flying lesson. You were out for a pretty long time."

"Getting lit on fire and having the tar beaten out of you will do that," he replied into the mug. "What's that you're working on?"

"Oh this?" she said innocently. "I spent the morning moonlighting as a Royal Naboo forensics specialist digging through what's left of the Judicial office and found this."

Buruk froze. "Is that…?"

"Kutilles' datapad, found resting beside the smoldering remains of his desk," she nodded, tapping keys on her own device. "Some of the data is pretty well corrupted but enough of it survived the fire more or less intact. At least so as to be intelligible. Looks like it says Collective Commerce District Penitentiary, Coruscant."

Buruk stared, astounded. When she finally looked up at him, he said, "You are amazing."

"Well it's about time you figured that out."

He laughed and winced at the fresh jolt of pain it brought him, then smiled and leaned in for a kiss.


	43. Sympathy For the Devil

To be a bearer of secrets was a terrible burden. Since learning the identity of the Galidraan Knight Slayer, as the Jedi had named him, Kit-Sun Wolfgana hadn't been able to get a good night's sleep. Each time he lay back on his pallet, he tossed and turned, or sometimes restlessly wandered back and forth about his quarters in the Jedi Temple. By dawn, he'd swear up and down that that day he would bring his information to the Council, then settle down to meditate before getting about his duties. Somehow, he never got around to following through on his resolve.

_Why do I constantly stay my hand?_ he wondered as he stood outside the doors to the High Council chamber. _Why do I come this far, only to turn back at the last moment?_ He looked down at the floor, at the hundreds of perfectly shaped tiles that fit together into a beautiful mosaic, and noticed some of the pieces had shifted slightly out of their settings and stuck out from the rest. Why hadn't a custodian come along and set them back in place?

Like with the Jedi, the little things seemed to escape them. Kit-Sun experienced growing discomfort with his new position as a Jedi Master; Master Ulasac had come unglued entirely. The warning signs were there to be seen, but no one on the Council seemed willing to look. Perhaps the Force was at work here. _But what could the masters see coming that overshadows the murder of several Jedi and the abdication of a Jedi Master? And for that matter, why haven't they told us about it?_

He refused to believe that the Masters didn't trust them. It was unthinkable.

Whatever the case, Kit-Sun doubted he would find what he sought here. He wanted—needed—to know more about the killer, this Buruk Kelborn. With little reluctance, he turned from the great sealed doors, gathered his robes about him, and made his way to the Temple Hangars on a whim. There, he signed out an airspeeder and set a course for the Commercial Commerce District.

He knew someone there could give him his answers.

# # #

Qate Jularc sat across the table from her Gand comrade, Maalku Tekot, in CoCo Penitentiary's cafeteria. Other prisoners gave them a wide berth; word of Qate's assault on the Weequay when they'd first arrived had spread like wildfire. She certainly didn't mind being avoided; she even let it slip that she was Mandalorian. That would keep the killers and psychos at bay, giving her more time to think about escape. To that end, she'd gotten herself assigned to the inmate custodial detail, giving her access to all manner of tools and—to her great joy—potentially volatile cleaning supplies.

"Our court date got delayed again," she said through a mouthful of tasteless rations that had the appearance of something scraped out of the rain gutters and plopped onto the dining tray without much regard for where it splattered. Anyone who envied the institutionalized for their "three hots and a cot" were deluding themselves. "Dee-A wants to prosecute us as Ganhuff's accomplices but the shrink won't release him to stand trial."

"What evidence does the state have against us?" Maalku asked, his voice buzzing through the vocabulator built into his breath mask. He gingerly placed a nutrient cube in a small receptacle on the apparatus that functioned like a miniature airlock; it was the only way he could eat outside a special ammonia chamber without poisoning himself with oxygen.

Qate frowned, took another bite of her lumpy protein slop, and chewed thoughtfully. "Prosecutor says I confessed to the break-in and implicated you," she said. "But I have absolutely no idea what they're talking about."

"Curious, Shepherd," the findsman replied, distractedly pushing a crumb about the tabletop.

"Hey, you know there's no way I'd do that," she insisted, putting a hand on his chitinous arm.

"Maalku knows. He didn't mean to sound as though he disbelieved you." He paused, flicked the crumb away, and turned his multifaceted eyes up to her. "I've just been troubled by my vision on the prison transport from Chandrila. It keeps coming back to me."

The Zabrak nodded. For as long as she'd known him, Maalku had called every member of the crew by a nickname corresponding to a vision he'd had of him or her. Buruk had been the Golden Tortoise, or simply Tortoise, and a number of the findsman's predictions had revolved around that particular animal with a gold-shell battling one with a green-shell. Just before their departure for Coruscant, Maalku had said he'd seen the green tortoise slay him.

It put a lump in her throat. She swallowed past it and asked, "You think he's going to die soon?"

"Maalku cannot tell," he buzzed mournfully, putting a three-fingered hand to his head. "There's nothing more to the vision; no sense of urgency, no hint of betrayal, nothing."

That filled Qate with both confidence and dread at the same time. Without a definite timeframe, she might still manage to bust them out of here and hook up with the crew in time to prevent that vision from happening.

"This isn't how I'm supposed to react," Maalku said flatly.

"What do you mean?"

"Maalku isn't supposed to be emotionally invested in his visions. The future simply is and all you can do is walk the path the parting mists reveal to you."

"Sure," Qate said, shoveling another spoonful of prison food into her mouth. "You could go where you're expected to and know everything that will happen along the way. Or…"

"Or?"

"Or you could plunge into the great unknown and make your own path."

Maalku blinked his nictitating membranes as he considered.

Across the cafeteria, a guard shouted, "Qate Jularc! Maalku Tekot! You have visitors!"

"Visitors?" Qate asked, keeping her voice low, and looked at the Gand.

Maalku nodded. "The Fox and the Three Wise Men," he answered, standing.

# # #

The guard ushered Maalku into the visitor's room and remained outside. The Gand looked about the plain grey space; a skylight let the sunshine in, bathing the table at the room's center. Three Gands sat on one side, all looking dispassionately at him; he recognized them as Tariq Laksh, Akshay Rajat, and Uttam Fatik. Decades ago, they'd observed him and determined him _janwuine_. Maalku walked to the remaining chair across from them, sat down, and asked, "To what do I owe a visit from a trio of _ruetsavii_?"

"Maalku Tekot," the center Gand, Uttam, spoke, "we have been sent by the Elders." Uttam was of the lungless subspecies and did not wear a breath mask. His mandibles clicked together rapidly. "They are alarmed at your confinement."

"Findsman is a sacred post," Akshay, on the left, said. "They track and apprehend lawbreakers; they cannot be seen aiding and abetting them."

"I know this," Maalku asserted.

The three _ruetsavii_ exchanged dismayed glances at his use of the first person. They believed he should have displayed more shame. "You were caught breaking into a secure facility," Tariq stated. "A hospital."

"Yes," Maalku nodded.

"To steal large quantities of controlled substances."

"Yes."

"Which you then intended to give to a Republic fugitive: a known killer with a history of substance abuse."

"Which I intended to use to help treat a trusted friend's debilitating addiction," Maalku corrected.

"That is no excuse for bringing shame to the findsman caste." Uttam insisted. "Not only that; you have also dishonored yourself, Tekot."

Maalku bristled at the use of his surname. Had he the biological capacity, he was certain he would have blushed. Instead, he began tapping his fingers on the table. "I-I had only noble intentions," he faltered, determined to maintain a proud front. Even so, he had a feeling he knew what was coming. "Surely that must offset some of the shame I-I have brought?"

"No, Tekot," Akshay answered. "The Elders have already decided. You are exiled and no longer to be considered _janwuine_. If you ever return to Gand, your life is forfeit."

Maalku's heart sank and he sat perfectly motionless for several beats, staring fixedly at the _ruetsavii_. They'd actually done it; they'd taken his name.

As it sank in, the three rose and walked out, leaving him behind in his stupor.

# # #

Qate's armed escort placed her in binders and pushed her roughly into the small visitation room. She found herself before a seated man with long, shiny black hair and a dark red chin-curtain beard that matched the two inverted triangles tattooed to his cheeks and the heavy cloak he wore. He offered her an inviting smile as she sat down across from him.

Warily, she cocked an eyebrow and said, "That robe of yours might be red, but I can tell you're a _jetii_."

He looked down at himself bashfully. "It gets so dull, being surrounded by brown all the time," he explained. "I thought this would help me stand out."

"It's doing a great job. What do you want with me?"

He looked her in the eye, his expression becoming very earnest. "You don't remember me?" She shook her head no, noting that he didn't seem surprised at that. "My name is Kit-Sun Wolfgana; we met some time ago, on Corellia. You were part of a team of bounty hunters who captured a Drall terrorist cell."

"I was," she nodded, offering no more.

"We met again, several weeks ago," the Jedi continued, lowering his gaze to the tabletop, "while you were in solitary confinement."

"Now that I can definitely say I don't recall," she scoffed. "Sort of a reason they call it _solitary_."

Wolfgana traced his finger in circles on the table. "Yes, I know," he said. He sounded almost embarrassed or… regretful. "I apologize for that; I manipulated your memory."

Qate frowned. _The _shab…_?_ "Explain."

He met her eyes again and she could definitely see shame in them. "I was assisting the constabulary with their investigation. They wanted to establish a connection between you and Doctor Riscan. I… interviewed you… So to speak."

His body began to ripple and dissolve unnaturally, fading before her eyes. Qate leapt to her feet, startled, and backed away. The guard took a step toward her, reaching for his stun baton. "Stop!" the Jedi barked, only it wasn't the Jedi's voice anymore. Qate blinked her eyes and in the split second he was out of view, Buruk appeared in his place.

The Zabrak was speechless.

"This is the form I came to you in," Buruk—Wolfgana—explained. "Casting illusions so real you could never tell the difference is a talent I have. My specialty, in fact."

Qate understood perfectly. He'd tricked her into betraying Ganhuff, naming Maalku and herself as his accomplices in the hospital heist. It didn't surprise her one bit. The _jetiise_ were always manipulating others, invading their minds and forcing their actions. No, it didn't surprise her; it _angered_ her.

"_Shabuir!_" she roared and leapt over the table. Wolfgana toppled over backward in his chair, cracking his head on the floor, and Qate sat atop his chest, wrapping her fingers around the Jedi's throat. The moment she'd touched him he became his old self again, the illusion dissolving as quickly as it had appeared.

"I'm… sorry," he gagged; he didn't even try to fight back. She knew he could have hurled her across the room with his powers, but he didn't. He just lay there and took it.

He didn't have to for very long, though. The moment Qate had launched herself at him, the guard had sprung into action. No sooner had Wolfgana apologized than the Zabrak felt a jolt shoot through her nervous system as the stun baton was pressed against her left armpit. She fell sideways, convulsing erratically, gritting her teeth against the pain of every single neuron in her body firing at once.

"Are you alright, Master Jedi?" the guard asked, helping Wolfgana to his feet.

"Yes," the Jedi coughed, waving the guard away. "Yes, I'm fine." Then, kneeling down beside Qate, he placed a hand on her forehead and closed his eyes. The feeling immediately returned to her limbs and she sat up, albeit stiffly. "Please forgive me for my actions," he said, opening his eyes again. "It was wrong of me manipulate you as I did."

"_Shabla_ right it was," she replied, casting a murderous look at the guard. Then, turning her attention back to the Jedi, she asked, "So, now that your conscience is clear, what's this visit really all about?"

He turned to the guard. "Leave us, please."

"I don't think that's a good idea, Jedi," he said. "She's an ornery one, as you've seen."

Wolfgana's gaze became intense as he said, "I doubt she'll have another outburst."

The guard nodded, his eyes going blank. "I doubt she'll have another outburst."

"I'm sure she's learned her lesson."

"She's learned her lesson." Turning, the guard stepped out of the room and the door hissed shut behind him.

"Shall we resume our seats?" Wolfgana asked as he stood and offered his hand. She ignored it and climbed to her feet herself, then returned to her chair across the table from him. He shrugged, righted his own, and sat down.

"It's a funny sense of morality you _jetiise_ have," Qate said. "You'll apologize to me for making me see things then go right ahead and warp a prison guard's mind."

"Yes, well… I didn't force _him_ to incriminate himself."

"Alright," she shrugged, changing the subject. "Out with it."

"Of course." Wolfgana cleared his throat, then asked, "Please tell me about Buruk?"

Qate snorted. "You mean Buruk the _shabuir_ you impersonated to get me to talk?"

Wolfgana didn't shift uncomfortably in his seat the way she'd expected him to. _So, the remorsefulness only goes so far. _Jetii_'s got _beskar_ in his spine after all._

"Yes," he said. "What is his motive for murdering the Jedi who survived the mission to Galidraan? There must be more to it than simple revenge."

Qate guffawed before she could help herself. "Buruk's not a complicated guy," she laughed. "Revenge is really all there is to it for him. But, if you want some sort of deeper cause, go read a history book."

"I have," he stated evenly. "Though I admit I haven't obsessed over them as some of my contemporaries have. It was my understanding that Mandalorians generally didn't hold grudges when defeated in battle."

Qate shook her head incredulously. "You _aruetiise _really don't have a clue about us, do you?"

"I'm sorry," he said, frowning. "Aru-ay-tee-say?"

"A Mando word meaning outsiders," she explained. "Non-Mandalorians. Also, point of interest, it can mean traitors."

"Ah," he nodded. "Please go on."

She rolled her eyes and sat back in her chair. "Today's _Mando'ade_ are a pretty far cry from the ones in your history books," she said. "And even back then, at the end of the Mandalorian Wars, attitudes were pretty mixed about our defeat. Some respected the Jedi that did us in, others resented the fact that he tried to disarm us and force us to disband. It was an affront to our culture."

"How so?"

"Take the armor we wear, for example. We call it _beskar'gam_. That means iron skin in Basic. Iron _skin_; it's a part of who we are and the Republic tried to take that away from us. It wasn't the last time, either, but at least then, we were the aggressors.

"After the Republic's big move toward demilitarization, somebody high up pointed a finger at the Mandalore sector and said, 'They're too dangerous to be left to their own devices.' So they attacked us, with your Jedi Order at the head; the shining examples of liberty and tolerance come to our doorstep to force their way of life on us, not even a Republic world. Of course, you know we didn't go quietly.

"After the reigning _Mand'alor_ was killed and the fighting finally ground to a halt, everyone that refused to accept the regime change was transplanted to the moon Concordia. From there, clans and factions went their separate ways, some staying behind to cultivate their new home, some striking out into the galaxy to carry on the true Mando lifestyle."

"Mercenaries, you mean." The Jedi didn't sound like he meant it as an insult.

"A warrior has to feed their children," Qate stated. He nodded his understanding and she continued. "Some turned to banditry. Others tried to be more honor-bound. Buruk spent his early years with one of the more aggressive groups of hard-liners. They wanted to overthrow the duchy the Republic set up and then go on the offensive, just like during the Mandalorian Wars."

"How could they hope to accomplish such a task with so few warriors?" he asked.

"There was a lot of in-fighting amongst the traditionalist groups. Each tried to kill off the others' leaders and absorb their warriors into their own faction. The group Buruk was a part of felt it was time for the _Mando'ade_ to stop being pushed around and regain their respect, and that the best way to do that was to do some pushing of their own."

"So Buruk believes very strongly that the Republic, and the Jedi Order in particular, are responsible for trying to destroy his people's culture, which he was raised to hold very dear."

Qate nodded. "You interfere where you're not welcome, forcing others to adhere to your morality instead of their own, causing them to rely on you and your magic when they should be relying on themselves and what they can do. Galidraan only strengthened that belief."

"Because we slaughtered every Mandalorian to the last man without pause for consideration."

"Almost to the last man," she corrected. "Buruk very nearly died there but something kept that vengeful heart of his beating long enough to get himself healed and moving again. He lives by the feud and won't give up until his honor's satisfied." She neglected to mention Kex; no reason to give him an idea on how to trap Buruk.

"Is there some way I can find him? Perhaps talk to him?'

"Sooner or later, I'm sure he'll find you, _jetii_. And when he does, he won't be in a talking mood."

# # #

Kit-Sun left the prison and climbed into his waiting airspeeder, if not necessarily _armed_ with knowledge then at least somewhat better informed. It came as no great shock to know that events of the distant past affected the attitudes of the present; they so often did.

As Master Ulasac had suspected, vengeance drove the man, but it was Kit-Sun's belief that the more important piece of knowledge was what drove the vengeance. Now that he understood Buruk a little better, he could try reasoning with him. He wanted the Jedi and the Republic to leave him and his people alone; Kit-Sun wanted the killings to stop. They each had something to bargain for.

The trick would be getting Ulasac to stand down afterward. If Kit-Sun had to deceive him, he would.

_No_, he thought. _The trick will be finding him. I might need some help with that._

Keying the speeder's onboard comlink, he called ahead to the Jedi Temple. "Ready a transport," he ordered the hangar's superintendent droid, "and load the navicomputer with coordinates for Tatooine. I'll be taking an extended leave of absence."


	44. Comfortably Numb Part 1

Ganhuff Riscan couldn't lift his head.

He was not bound in any way. He merely sat languidly in the corner, hunched over, arms hanging dead at his sides. He willed for them to move but they may as well have been detached from his body, limp noodles instead of appendages.

His awareness of his surroundings was severely limited. The wall and floor were soft where he sat, padded, he knew, so he couldn't hurt himself by running into them. There was no point to it, though, because he couldn't move. He could barely even think about moving; his mind was in a fog, as if a wet blanket had been wrapped around his brain, weighing down a good many of his thoughts.

Images swam into his field of vision. Bodies on cots and gurneys, mostly covered by thin sheets except where they were pulled back to expose their heads and shoulders. Some faces, he saw contorted in a deathly rictus of suffering agony, while others wore a deceptive serenity as if they were merely sleeping. But Ganhuff knew they weren't sleeping.

He knew because he'd seen them before.

With each new face came a name, twenty-three in all, and a harsh voice from out of the fog hissed, "You murdered them!" The primitive part of his brain, the one that knew only fight or flight, tried to recoil but his muscles wouldn't work. He could only sit and stare, watching this parade of the dead, and self-flagellate.

# # #

Buruk Kelborn stood on the windswept landing pad, staring up at a peaceful, clear blue sky unbroken by clouds. "Well?" he asked with a frown.

"Yep," Aerek said halfheartedly. "They're still up there." He stood beside his father, looking up through a pair of macrobinoculars at the massive Trade Federation battleships in high orbit.

Buruk's frown deepened as he planted his fists on his hips and swore under his breath. The Neimoidians had blockaded Naboo for three days now, keeping the _Cuun'yaim_ planted firmly on the ground. He had places to go and people to see but couldn't do either with those converted super-freighters ringing the planet and stopping all traffic to and from the surface. He lowered his gaze to the permacrete landing pad and swore again.

Just before the Trade Federation had arrived, he'd gotten another untraceable message from his Mystery Man, the one who claimed he could help him find Kex. It had said he might want to consider leaving Naboo very soon. _Too _shabla_ right_, he thought bitterly.

"People are afraid," Lynli said. Buruk looked over to where she lay sunbathing with her lekku splayed out to her sides. The bathing suit she wore left very little of her violet skin to the imagination. In her ear was a tiny comlink bud, something she'd cooked up to eavesdrop on government communications while Morran scouted the local populace. "Whole city's talking about invasion."

"They should be scared," he replied, letting his gaze linger; she was, after all, a fine looking woman. "I've seen a battle droid army in action. Not the brightest soldiers ever but they're efficient and merciless and won't think twice about killing civilians."

Just then, the _Cuun'yaim_'s pilot, Morran Risant, rode up on the ship's swoop bike. Dismounting as the repulsorlift engine idled to a halt, he said, "I talked to every bartender and professional infochant in Theed. The queen's telling the Neimies to shove off but they're insisting they're within their legal rights."

"I'm getting pretty much the same thing on the official bands," Lynli said dryly, plucking the bud from her ear. "Whose bright idea was it to give a corporation senatorial representation anyway?"

"Well, her highness-ness went and commed her pet senator and now Chancellor Valorum's sending a couple of ambassadors to negotiate on the Naboo's behalf."

"It's one delay after another," the Mandalorian sighed, kicking at the ground. If it hadn't been for his tussle with the Sun Guard, they'd already be on their way to bust Ganhuff, Qate, and Maalku out of prison. "We need to hurry up and get gone."

Still, if it came to a full-scale invasion, Buruk couldn't help but think about what would happen to the locals. They'd probably be rounded up and held hostage until their queen did… whatever the Neimies wanted her to. They certainly couldn't fight the Trade Federation's army. The royal security force wasn't nearly large enough, let alone properly trained or equipped; they were police, not soldiers.

"I'm going to put in a call to Mulokhai," he said aloud, turning to walk up the ship's boarding ramp. "Maybe he can bribe someone upstairs to let us pass."

# # #

Detective Pakric Orsiri cut the engines of his unmarked airspeeder the second it was in the parking slot and hopped out, not even bothering with the door. _Doctor Andin better have a kriffing _good_ explanation!_ he thought as he stormed through the parking structure adjacent to the CoCo District Penitentiary, his footsteps echoing angrily off the permacrete walls.

He flashed his badge at the guard shack and was buzzed in through the perimeter gate. He was a regular at the prison, interviewing inmates and keeping up relations with the warden, so they didn't bother to search him; Orsiri knew the drill about never turning his back on the cons or bringing anything in that they could use as weapon.

He checked his service pistol with the desk sergeant and said, "I'm here to see the shrink."

"Got an appointment?" the guard asked lazily. Orsiri suspected he was interrupting the man's game of HoloNet sabacc.

"What are you, his kriffing secretary? No," the detective answered. "Short notice." The sergeant didn't bother to reply and just motioned down the hall with his head.

Orsiri made his way down the corridor and threw the psychiatrist's office door open without knocking. Andin jumped in his seat, snapping his head up from his datapad. "What's the meaning of this?" he demanded, glaring at the intruder.

"What's this I hear about Riscan being put on suicide watch?"

Andin sat up in his chair and straightened his tie. "He became violent," he stated simply.

"Violent?" Orsiri asked, cocking an eyebrow. "That doesn't sound like Riscan."

"Yes, well, you'd be amazed how people can change after they've lived on the fringe."

_No, I wouldn't._ "What happened?"

"He attacked an orderly droid that brought his midday meal; smashed it up with the dinner tray. I sealed his room and had a paralytic agent pumped in so he could be subdued."

"Subdued?"

"A neural disruptor," Andin explained. "A sort of collar device that immobilizes a subject and limits cognitive functions. Less cumbersome than a primitive straitjacket and more humane than a lobotomy."

"A what?"

"An ancient surgical procedure once performed on mental patients suffering psychoses," Andin explained. "It involved drilling into a subject's skull and making an incision in the frontal lobe of the brain, something that would be considered an act of mutilation today."

Orsiri frowned. "And how does this affect Riscan going to trial?"

The psychiatrist stood and walked to the window. Turning his back on the detective, he gazed out at the uniform buildings that stretched to the horizon and said with a sigh, "I'm afraid this turn of events precludes him going to trial for… I really can't say how long he'll need to be treated."

Orsiri growled and balled his fists, frustrated by the injustice of it. "Let me see him," he demanded.

Andin turned. "Excuse me?"

"I said, 'let me see him.'"

"You're hardly qualified to judge his mental state."

"Damn it man, let me see him!" Orsiri bellowed, bringing his fist down on the doctor's desk.

Andin glared at the detective for a moment. "I don't have time for this," he muttered, grabbing his passkey from the desk and heading for the door. Orsiri followed and thought he heard him add, "Now I'm going to be late."

Outside Riscan's cell, Andin gestured at the tiny observation slit and said, "See for yourself; subdued, as I said."

Orsiri peered through the slit and saw Riscan sitting languidly in the corner of a padded cell, a thick brass-colored ring around his throat with several blinking blue lights. The former surgeon's eyes were blank, a thousand-yard stare into nothing, and a thin stream of drool trickled from the left corner of his mouth to create a dark patch on the collar of his orange jumpsuit.

The detective frowned. _I don't like this_, he thought. _That's not the man I've been investigating._ Riscan had been highborn and cultured, blessed with the gift of gab. The man in that cell was an empty husk, his consciousness locked up by that blue light blinking away happily.

"You say he attacked a service droid?" Orsiri asked, turning away from the door.

Andin had been standing with his arms crossed over his chest, impatiently tapping his foot. "That's right," he answered, glancing at his chronometer. "Are you quite through? I have a previous engagement."

"Is there a recording?"

"Of course there's a recording," Andin said with a huff. "Would you like to see the droid too?"

"I would."

# # #

"_Buir!_" Aerek called up the boarding ramp. "_Buir_, come take a look at this!"

Buruk's boots clanged on the ramp as he ran down to the landing pad where his son stood looking into the sky with his macrobinoculars. "What is it?" he breathed, taking the optics from the boy and raising them to his eyes. He had a bad feeling that he knew what it was; his call to Mulokhai had mysteriously cut off mid-communication only a few minutes ago.

"They're coming," Aerek said.

The Mandalorian panned the binoculars across the sky and counted at least half a dozen of the Trade Federation's massive H-shaped landing craft spreading out and making their way ponderously down to Naboo's surface.

"What's happening?" Lynli called down from the cargo bay, now dressed in her olive green mechanic's coverall.

"Invasion!" Buruk shouted back up to her, handing the macrobinoculars back to Aerek.

"We've got to do something," she said. "These people won't stand a chance."

"Agreed," Buruk said tersely. Then, pushing the boy up the ramp, he said, "Go tell Morran to warm up the engines and run through preflight. Have him get a hold of every ship in port and recommend they do the same; I don't care how, tell him to use blinker-code if he has to. Then open up all the open bunks, storage rooms, refreshers—even the escape shuttles and hidden smuggling compartments.

"Lynli, you're with me; we're heading into town to spread the word."

The Twi'lek nodded and ran to the swoop bike, firing it up and walking it down the ramp where the Mandalorian threw his leg across the saddle behind her. "We'll be back," he promised Aerek, leaning down to kiss him on the forehead. "Now get a move on and do as I said."

Lynli gunned the engine, drowning out the boy's footsteps up the ramp, and they shot down the street into Theed. "What's the plan?" she called over her shoulder.

"We warn everybody we can, load up all the refugees that we can take, and blast off," he replied.

"You think the _Cuun'yaim_ can run that blockade?"

"She's an armed smuggler's ship built for speed, not some royal luxury yacht," he shot back. "I'm counting on it."

Convincing the locals that they were in danger was easier said than done, of course. Urgency meant they had to dispense with tact and practically beat them over the head with the reality of the situation. Most refused to believe the Federation was invading while others were simply reluctant to abandon their homes and possessions. Once the approaching tank columns and troop transports appeared on the horizon, however, they had a good-sized crowd of civilians, all carrying bags, babies, and whatever else they'd grabbed, gathered at their docking bay and struggling to get aboard within a few hours.

"We're not going to have enough room," Lynli muttered as they inched the swoop through the crowd to the airlock.

"There's a way we can squeeze a few more aboard," Buruk replied. "How'd you like to move in with me?"

Her head snapped around to face him as they pulled up into the cargo bay; she looked surprised by his suggestion. "Move in with—? You mean into your—?"

"You got a better idea?" he asked, jumping off the bike and heading for the bay doors to open them to the waiting refugees out on the pad. "We're in a bit of an emergency situation here and I think our relationship has progressed to a point where moving in together is only natural," he said in a rush.

Lynli hesitated a moment, then ran up the stairs to the upper catwalks. "Okay."

"Get your things moved over while I control the inflow," he called after her, holding his hand over the control switch. This was the most dangerous part; if he let too many in at once, they'd trample him in a mad rush to get to safety, but if he didn't get them all aboard fast, they'd be caught on the ground by the invading battle droids. He could already hear the high-pitched whine of approaching STAPs over the murmuring civilians.

The cargo doors parted down the middle, grinding open on gears that could use some extra lubricant they couldn't afford, and the press of bodies got worse as people hurried to get through. Buruk stepped aside and directed them to the aft dormitory, telling them to fill in every available space from back to front and not to worry, that they'd be safe.

Once every cubic meter of the ship was packed with refugees, Buruk sealed the airlock. He tried to block out the shouts and cries of the people still standing on the landing pad as the doors ground shut. They were offering up their money and possessions, begging him to at least take their children out of harm's way. He'd known there wouldn't be enough room on his ship for everyone but it still ate at him. _I hope some of the other captains decided to do the right thing._ He was sure some of them would take the refugees for all they were worth.

Reaching for the ship-wide comlink as the people outside began beating their fists against the hull, Buruk swallowed and said, "Morran, we're all buttoned up. Take us out of here."

"Roger," the pilot called back, and the Mandalorian felt the engines reverberating through the deck and up his boots.

"Lynli, engine room; Aerek, starboard gun well," Buruk ordered. When they reported back, he pushed his way through the crowded cargo bay, up the choked stairwell to the packed catwalk, and climbed into the gun well on the portside.

Morran's outlaw tech friend had really delivered, replacing the Firefly's old forward-locked double laser cannon with a pair of reciprocating quad-laser turrets. _A few more of these _dush'ade_ and I just might have to reclassify this baby as a gunship_, he thought as he pulled on a headset. They were mounted forward of the ship's wing pylons, leaving their aft somewhat exposed to enemy fire, something he intended to correct the next time he could afford another pair of quads.

"Get ready," he said over the comm to Aerek as the sky through the transparisteel bubble darkened from blue, to indigo, to black as they broke atmosphere. He could see other ships making a break for it in all directions. A few drifted, powerless, near the blockade, victims of ion canon fire; once the other runners were disabled, the Neimies would tow them in with tractor beams and do to their occupants whatever they planned to do to the people down on the planet.

"Vultures inbound," Morran reported, "ten- and one-o'clock. Two squadrons-worth."

"Here they come," Aerek called, excited.

Buruk swiveled his gun around, glancing between targeting sensor and the growing cloud outside the bubble, and lined up on the lead fighter in his group. The range counter dropped fast and at two kilometers, he squeezed the firing studs. The reciprocating cannons boomed in his ears as his target flashed brilliantly as its power cells ruptured and it blossomed into an expanding fireball that snuffed out as quickly as it appeared. Holding down the triggers, he swept the quad-laser across his firing arc, saturating space with scarlet energy lances.

Then his targets suddenly dropped below his field of vision as the ship snap-rolled to the right, spoiling his aim and dropping his stomach down into his boots. Before Buruk could curse Morran's erratic flying, he saw a tree trunk-sized turbolaser bolt flash past the ship's belly. _That was too close_, he thought, taking back every mean thing he ever said about the pilot.

"I got one!" Aerek called out.

"Good shot," Buruk encouraged him and glanced down at the sensor screen. Three fighters were coming around to flank them.

The _Cuun'yaim_ jolted with laser blasts and a pair of fighters zipped by overhead. Buruk sighted his target and squeezed the triggers. The Vulture on the left exploded and its wingman spiraled away before Buruk could line up another shot. The ship rocked again and this time the lights dimmed momentarily.

"A fast exit would be better than slow," Buruk insisted.

"I'm sorry, what'd you say?" Morran asked through gritted teeth. "I was taking a nap up here." The ship rolled again, spoiling Buruk's shot, and wove through a series of loops that confounding the pursuing droid fighters. "Lucky for you I can out fly these buckets of bolts in my sleep.

"That's right folks; you're in the skillful hands of Morran Risant. Rest assured, your satisfaction is our number one priority on this flight and if you have any complaints whatsoever, please don't hesitate to direct them to the angry-looking guy with the red ponytail. We'll be taking a scenic route out of the Naboo system, so why don't I take this time to tell you all a little bit about myself. I was born at a very early age in the city of Coronet…"

Buruk muted the pilot and focused on the hundreds of Vulture droids still swarming about his ship. Luckily, the other vessels making a break for it divided their attention, otherwise the _Cuun'yaim_ would've have been overwhelmed.

# # #

In the cockpit, Morran held a cigarette clenched between his teeth as he ran his mouth; it was how he kept his cool. Several times, he jerked the Firefly through stomach-lurching maneuvers that the inertial compensator couldn't quite match. The g's exhilarated him, brought him back to his element so that he felt one with the ship. _To the Nine Hells with the Force_, he thought as a grin spread on his face. _I'd like to see one of those trumped up Jedi fly a bulk freighter loaded with 'fugees through a Trade Federation blockade._

The massive ring-shaped battleships circling the planet loomed larger in the _Cuun'yaim_'s forward viewport, spinning violently as Morran rolled the ship up onto his starboard wing and dodged another turbolaser blast.

"By the way, ladies, did I mention that your hero up in the cockpit is single?" he continued to ramble into the comm. "I enjoy bolo ball and moonlit walks on the beach, and my favorite food is nerf pate. Don't be shy, now."

The ship shook again and a red light blinked on the control panel. "Sithspit! Lynli, port stabilizer's broken loose."

"Wally's on it," the Twi'lek reported from the engine room. She sounded like she was knee-deep in whatever mess had occurred there.

"See if you can strengthen our shields on that side; they're favoring us there."

"Got it."

Red laser bolts stitched by the viewport and Morran rolled away to the left, trying to bring the stronger starboard shields between them and their attacker. The incoming Vulture disappeared in a cloud of vapor as Aerek shot it down and the pilot smiled. _That kid's a born ace_, he thought.

Suddenly there was a high-pitched, electronic squeal over the comm. Morran winced and instinctively clapped one hand over his ear, keeping the other on the control yoke. "Spast, what was that?"

"They're shooting at Wally!" Buruk reported from the port gun well. "_Shab_, that little trashcan can sure move."

"Watch what you say about my droid," Lynli snarled over several ratcheting and clanking sounds.

"Clear those fighters off him," Morran ordered as he rolled the freighter and dove below the battleships' plane. They'd grown huge, taking up the whole viewport now. The pilot juked and jinked back and forth between their turbolasers, clenching his teeth at every near miss. _Come on, come on…_

Finally, the red warning light winked out and Morran breathed a sigh of relief. "Alright travelers, hold on tight." He slapped the big red button on the control panel and immediately an invisible fist slammed into his chest, pinning him to the pilot's seat as the SLAM system kicked in. The Trade Federation battleships streaked by overhead and dwindled behind them on the aft sensors. As soon at the motor cut out, Morran pulled back on the hyperdrive lever and the stars stretched before them as they made the jump to lightspeed.

# # #

Orsiri sat before the console, watching the grainy, low-res security holo Doctor Andin had provided him. It showed Riscan moving about his cell restlessly, reclining on the bunk, then getting up again to pace the room like a caged animal, then settling back down. It went on like that for several hours of footage and he was thankful to be able to fast-forward through it.

Finally, the orderly droid entered, bearing a tray of hospital food; Orisiri wrinkled up his nose at the sight of the bland, tasteless fodder barely a step above military rations. He watched as Riscan took the proffered tray, then, as the droid turned to exit the cell, dumped the food onto the floor and slammed the tray across the unsuspecting droid's head, knocking it prone. The prisoner then proceeded to hack at the droid's neck with the thin side of the tray, straddling it on the ground so it couldn't get up, until the head completely separated from the body, attached by nothing more than a few strands of wires.

During the attack, the cell door had been sealed by remote and paralytic gas began filling the chamber. Several seconds after beheading the droid, Riscan keeled over, sprawled across the floor, while his victim continued to spasm erratically. After another few seconds, the gas was pumped out of the cell and a pair of prison guards entered, flanking Doctor Andin who placed the neural disruptor around the unconscious prisoner's neck.

Orsiri sat back and blew out a stunned breath. He couldn't believe a man like Riscan could be capable of something like that, but there it was. Somehow, it still didn't feel right. He played the attack again, frowning as Riscan brought the tray crashing down on the droid's neck, then raised it over his shoulder before brining it down again.

_I have to get this analyzed_, the detective thought. Peering over his shoulder, he confirmed he was alone in the psychiatrist's office and ejected the holodisk from the projector. He then got up, slipped it into his pocket, and headed for the door.

_To be continued…_


	45. Comfortably Numb Part 2

The Wookiees were all dead. Ren Tarant's guide had found them in a small clearing strung up by their heels down in the Shadowlands, where the most dangerous predators on Kashyyyk prowled. _But not all predators walk on four legs_, she thought, cupping the sleeve of her Jedi robe over her mouth to filter out the stench of blood. It hung heavy in the damp air, cloying, threatening to overwhelm her and the young male serving as her guide.

"Cut them down," she ordered.

Her guide, Naworrack, moaned softly and unsheathed his hunting knife.

There'd been three members of the hunting party, all familiar with the Shandowlands' dangers, all formidable; the smallest among them was still over two meters tall. They'd been skinned and strung up, and tiny droplets of blood dripped from their fingertips, sending ripples across the tranquil crimson pools gathered beneath them. As Naworrack cut the ropes suspending each one above the forest floor, their bodies landed with sickening plops, sprawling like rag dolls in their own blood.

Ren grimaced and turned away. "Put them in the basket," she said. "We'll take them with us." Their bodies deserved to have the proper rites performed on them; their people deserved to lay their spirits to rest.

This had been the fifth such hunting party to go missing in the Shadowlands. The Wookiee elders suspected marauding Trandoshans and had been ready to strike back against their neighbors. At the Senate's request, the Jedi had intervened and sent Ren to investigate. She'd found the others similarly treated: murdered, skinned, and strung up. This latest group had to have been killed recently; Kashyyyk's myriad scavengers hadn't yet set upon them.

"Do you see any traces?" Ren asked, peering at the soft earth beneath her feet for tracks or signs of recent traffic. The killers couldn't have gotten very far in the thick brush down here in the depths of the wroshyr forests.

_[Spent ACP cartridges]_, Naworrack snarled as he gently placed the last of the bodies in the basket atop their airspeeder. _[Footprints. Trandoshan.]_

"Are you sure?"

_[I can smell their reptilian stink.]_

She nodded and pushed grimy red hair out of her eyes; she'd been down here near a month and couldn't remember her last bath. She imagined she had a pretty distinctive stink about her as well, though her companion never complained. "Follow the tracks," she said. "I'll keep up in the speeder."

He grunted acknowledgement at her, unslung his bowcaster, and slunk off into the woods.

Ren sighed as she watched him go and wondered why Wookiees and Trandoshans hated each other so passionately. They were both intelligent, space-faring species; why couldn't they overcome their prejudices and move forward with the rest of the galaxy? There were so many things to live for, better ways to experience passion.

_No_, she told herself and wrapped her arms around her body. _You've been down that road. Nothing to experience there now but despair, so just leave it be._ The Jedi proscriptions against emotional attachment were right and she knew it, for love was a dangerous, devastating thing, and even a Jedi Master was not immune to its allure.

Losing the person she'd held most dear had brought her here, to Kashyyyk, in the hopes that throwing herself into something completely would take the pain away. It had worked, once enough time had passed. She'd overcome her passion and now she hoped to help others overcome their own. After all, the adage "pass on what you have learned" didn't necessarily only mean Jedi.

# # #

"Got something for you Dayv," Detective Pakric Orsiri said, reaching into his inside jacket pocket and handing over the holodisc he'd purloined from CoCo Penitentiary. He hadn't gotten any comm calls about it, so he assumed Doctor Andin hadn't missed it, or if he did, he knew better than to raise a fuss over it. "I need it analyzed."

"Analyzed for what?" the tech asked, looking up from his console and blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the change in brightness. Dayv Sunrunner was one of CoCo Constabulary's top holo-analysts. With that came a certain eccentricity regarding his workspace; it was poorly lit, illuminated only by the consoles, monitors and holoprojectors scattered haphazardly about the room, and no-smoking signs were plastered over every bare surface. Dayv insisted smoke was bad for the delicate electronics he worked with and had no qualms about berating anyone who didn't obey, even the prefect. Furthermore, he kept the temperature cranked down near ten degrees centigrade.

"Anything," Orsiri answered. "Abnormalities, tampering, that sort of thing." He reached back into his jacket and drew our a few fifty-credit bills. "And I need it kept quiet."

"I can do that," Dayv replied, snatching up the cash and stuffing it into his pocket. Spinning around in his chair, he slipped the holodisc into a projector and sniffed at the air. "Have you been smoking?" he asked. "I can smell it on your clothes."

"No Dayv, I haven't been smoking," Orsiri rolled his eyes and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I just came from my speeder."

"Oh good," the tech said. "You know smoke can damage my equipment."

"Yes Dayv, I'm well aware." He watched other the tech's shoulder as he watched the footage of Ganhuff Riscan apparently attack and destroy a service droid in his cell at CoCo Penitentiary.

"Oh my," Dayv murmured as the scene played out. "Savage."

"Too savage," Orsiri insisted.

Dayv leaned back in his chair. "Well, I can tell you right off the bat that it's been tampered with at the very least."

"How can you tell?"

Dayv paused the playback and pointed. "See the prisoner registration number on the jumpsuit? It's on the wrong side and it's backwards. So obviously it's been flipped." He punched a few keys and the image reversed itself. "There's the proper orientation."

Orsiri let out a breath. "I don't know how I missed that," he said in astonishment.

The tech grinned up at him. "See, that's why you're just the detective and I'm one of the detail men."

Orsiri ignored the jibe. "Is there anything else?"

"Well, let's have another look at it now that it's been righted." He played the video from the beginning and they watched as Riscan raised the tray, brought it crashing down on the droid's neck, then raised it over his shoulder once again.

"Freeze it," Orsiri hissed. The tray was poised to strike over Riscan's left shoulder. In fact, every swing came from the left. "That's odd."

"What is?"

"Are you right- or left-handed?"

"Right," Dayv answered.

"So when you swing a bat or something, which direction do you swing it from?"

Dayv patted his paunchy belly and said, "I don't exactly get out and play sports much…"

"Hypothetically," Orsiri insisted.

"From the right."

The detective nodded and picked up a datapad from the cluttered stack on a nearby desk. "Like so." He swung it through the air, stopping just short of the flinching tech.

"What are you doing?" Dayv shrieked. His eyes had gone wide as saucers and he snatched the datapad out of Orsiri's hands. "Do you have any idea what this thing is worth?"

"Sorry," Orsiri chuckled. "Only demonstrating. And lefties?"

Dayv caressed the liberated datapad like a relieved parent who'd just pulled their child out of traffic and blinked. "From the left," he answered.

"Exactly. Riscan is right-handed and the man in this holo consistently swings from the left, but it was flipped around so he would appear to be swinging from the right to a casual observer."

"We're clearly not dealing with a criminal mastermind here," Dayv said dryly.

"No, we're not," the detective agreed. "See what else you can dig out of it and let me know what you find. I have other cases that need worked on right now."

# # #

Jedi Master Nurt Ulasac gazed in awe at the massive wroshyr trees that rose several kilometers into the sky as he entered Kashyyyk's atmosphere. Some of the larger trunks rivaled Coruscant's skyscrapers in height and the limbs were thick enough to support entire housing blocs. Leaves broader than his vessel and vines thicker than power cables hung from those limbs. The scale of the planet overwhelmed him and he wondered how anything so huge could grow naturally.

As he set his newly-acquired _Baudo_-class star yacht down on the landing pad in the capital of Rwookrrorro, Ulasac noticed that the intertwining tree branches actually grew together, forming a lattice that supported the weight of the city as well as the trees themselves. _Amazing how symbiosis works_, he thought, tossing his lekku over his shoulders, and disembarked.

_Symbiosis and the Force._ He could sense the planet teeming with life and he paused a moment on the pad to take in its splendor; he could hear avians hooting and smell cooking fires burning in nearby tree huts. Wookiees came and went as they pleased, strolling and chatting, acting as any normal sentient on their homeworld despite their savage appearance. Appearances, after all, were so often deceiving. The Jedi closed his eyes and it felt like a refreshing spring washing over him, with only the slightest undercurrent of danger. No doubt that was the fabled Shadowlands, far below the canopy where the sun never shone.

Somewhere down there was Ren Tarant. He could sense her, faintly. He tried the comlink. "Master Tarant, this is Master Ulasac; are you there?" Only static answered him.

Pocketing the device, he approached the nearest Wookiee. "Pardon me," he bowed. "I am Jedi Master Nurt Ulasac. I'm looking for a guide into the Shadowlands."

_[The Shadowlands are dangerous]_, replied the tall, hairy creature stacking cargo crates onto a dolly. _[Especially for off-worlders, Jedi or not.]_

Ulasac frowned slightly. It seemed everywhere he went, people stood in his way. "I appreciate the concern," he said, keeping his cool, "but dangerous or not, there's someone down there I need to find. Another Jedi."

The Wookiee stopped stacking crates and gestured height. _[Tall human, bearded, long hair?]_

"Uh, no," Ulasac answered, cocking an eyebrow in confusion.

_[Good. He left here months ago for Alaris Prime. Helped Attichitcuk and a bunch of colonists drive off the Trade Federation.]_

_Qui-Gon Jinn_, Ulasac thought. Aloud, he said, "No, I'm looking for a human woman, with red hair, somewhat shorter than me."

_[I saw her come into port]_, the Wookiee answered. _[A consular ship dropped her off and then left. You might want to ask around the Republic embassy.]_

"Thank you," Ulasac bowed again and headed into the city, his boots clomping on the wooden gantries.

# # #

Naworrack sniffed the air experimentally, then growled low in the back of his throat. Ren stretched out with her Force senses, probing the area. They'd come upon another small clearing in the underbrush, faintly lit by bioluminescent moss that grew thick at the base of the gargantuan wroshyr trees. It was forever night in the Shadowlands and the flora and fauna had evolved along much the same lines as deep-sea creatures.

She reached for her lightsaber as they approached the open space. A thick blanket of fog clung to the forest floor that dissipated in their airspeeder's repulsor field. It had made following the Trandoshan footprints difficult but between her Force senses and Naworrack's nose, they'd managed.

Now they were close. If they'd finally tracked down the group responsible for murdering innocent Wookiees, there was a chance Ren could finally get a good night's sleep. The longer the search had gone on, the more she'd relied on meditative trances, and it had begun to wear on her. She could feel her body reacting with more and more sluggishness each day she went without real rest but she had to push forward and see this through. The Wookiees depended on her and she wouldn't let them down.

She dropped down from the speeder and turned to Naworrack. "Climb to fifty meters and cover me," she said.

The Wookiee grunted affirmatively and punched a few controls on the console and the vehicle rose on its invisible cushion of repulsor energy.

Ren turned back to the clearing and, drawing her lightsaber, stepped forward. "I can feel your presence," she called out in a clear, strong voice. It usually surprised most beings, how authoritative this small, slightly built woman could be. "You are intruders to this land and—"

A concussion round exploded at her feet, kicking up dirt and setting her ears to ringing. A warning shot. "Very well," she called out and ignited her lightsaber. The viridian blade sprang to life with a _snap-hiss_ that lit the clearing a pale green. A volley of accelerated charged particles spat at her from behind and she leapt, hurtling herself upward with the Force, and ran up a vertical tree trunk. She then sprang away as another concussion round splashed against the wood, shattering bark and sending splinters everywhere.

Ren tumbled through the air like an acrobat, catching hold of a vine and swinging around in the direction the concussion fire had come from. Nowarrack had already entered the clearing on the airspeeder and was peppering the shrouded branches with his bowcaster. When the Jedi crashed through a camouflaged hunting blind, she found herself face to face with a pair of shocked Trandoshans.

Their shock didn't last for long, though, and the one with the concussion rifle leveled the barrel at her face. Before his claw could squeeze the trigger, her lightsaber bisected the weapon, as well as the arms holding it. He hissed in pain and fell back against his comrade, spoiling his aim so that he fired uselessly into the limb on which they stood. Ren flicked her saber again and the second Trandoshan was disarmed.

Turning back to the clearing, she saw Nowarrack taking cover inside the speeder as blaster and ACP fire spattered against the hull. Behind her, one of the Trandoshans hissed, "Lousssy Jedi!" As he lunged, Ren spun, and the lightsaber sliced through her attacker's waist with ease and the Trandoshan fell dead. The other simply held up his stumps in surrender.

Nowarrack roared a great Wookiee battle cry and hurled a small object over the side of the airspeeder. It landed among the foliage where the other poachers took cover and exploded, sending more splinters and shredded leaves flying. The Wookiee hooted triumphantly and guided the vehicle down to investigate his handiwork.

Turning back to the remaining Trandoshan, she asked, "How many were in your party?"

"Just the four of usss," he said.

"You're lying," she replied evenly. She never got angry. Or hopeful. Or alarmed. She'd excised emotion from her being in the months since she'd arrived, after—again, she turned away from the thought; it threatened to undo all of the progress she'd made in becoming the ideal Jedi, unfettered by passion.

"I ssswear," the Trandoshan insisted.

"That doesn't change the fact that you're lying." She raised her comlink to her lips and asked, "Nowarrack, how many bodies?"

_[Three]_, he answered, _[but I suspect other survivors are lying low now.]_

"Three there, two here," Ren said to the Trandoshan before her. "You've been caught in your lie." She probed his mind with the Force. "How many were in your party?" she asked again, influencing him.

"Ten," he snarled, his mouth moving as though it had been forced open. "We came to gain jagganath points for the Scorekeeper."

If Ren Tarant felt anything, she'd have felt disgust. The Scorekeeper was the goddess who awarded points for every Trandoshan's kill and determined their place in the afterlife; Wookiees were of particular value. It was a barbaric concept that led them to prey on others as bounty hunters and poachers.

"Where are the others," she demanded.

"Gone from this place," the Trandoshan answered. "When we don't report the ambush was a successss, they'll head for other hunting groundsss."

Ren reached into the poacher's vest and extracted a comlink. "So report."

He glared silently at her with orange, reptilian eyes. His body language said he wouldn't comply, so again she forced him. No malice, no pleasure. Just cool logic, reasoning this as the most expedient means of completing her mission.

The Trandoshan hissed and gurgled into the comm; she sensed no deception in him as he did as she willed. Then he fell silent and she pocketed his comlink and deactivated her lightsaber.

"Onto the airspeeder," she ordered, pointing with her inert weapon toward the end of the tree limb where Nowarrack had pulled alongside and hovered. They'd previously taken the Wookiee bodies up to the treetop city where they were taken for funeral services. Now the three Trandoshans Nowarrack had killed were piled in the basket. Ren reached out to the Force and lifted the fourth poacher who had tried to lunge at her, placing him atop the pile.

"Now we wait," she said, stepping into the vehicle after her prisoner. Nowarrack rumbled deep in his throat and lifted the airspeeder to a higher observation point.

# # #

Ulasac couldn't ask for help from the Republic embassy as port worker had suggested; if he'd done so, the diplomats would have put in a call over the HoloNet to the Senate, which in turn would have contacted the Jedi Temple, who would have revealed that he did not act with the authority of the Order. So he did the next best thing.

He went looking for a place to drink.

The cantina had been like most the Jedi had ever been in; loud, smoky, and crowded with half-drunk, socializing sentients that added a low murmur of conversation over the sound of the jukebox in the corner. What set it apart was the fact that the vast majority of its patrons was over two meters tall and covered with shaggy fur. Also, the interior designer had apparently been in love with wood paneling.

The sight of so many Wookiees gathered in one place would intimidate some beings, but Nurt Ulasac made his way confidently to the bar. An auburn brute with an eyepatch stood on the other side, filling a mug from one of the many brass taps arrayed along the countertop, then passed it to a merle tough with a pair of bandoliers slung across his chest.

Pushing his lekku over his shoulders, Ulasac addressed the bartender. "I'm looking for a guide to the Shadowlands."

The bartender cast a blue glance at the Jedi with his good eye, grunted, then returned his attention to the glass in his large, furry hands. _[Dangerous for offworlders down there]_, he said noncommittally. _[Even with a guide.]_

"I think I can handle myself well enough," Ulasac replied, placing his lightsaber casually on the bar. The Wookiee beside him woofed a chuckle. "Still," he continued, remaining cheerful, "better safe than sorry. Anyone experienced you can recommend?"

# # #

Orsiri poked his head into the holo-analysis room and rapped on the doorframe. "Got any good news for me, Dayv?" he called into the dim, flickering light of holographics illuminating the room.

"Very," the tech answered from across the office, not bothering to look up from his station; he was a very single-minded type, something Orsiri was counting on to solve this troublesome Riscan case. He was still hunched over a terminal, tapping away commands to manipulate the resolution on some crime scene holos for another case, when the detective approached.

Rolling his chair over to another station, Dayv brought up the security recording from the penitentiary. "It wasn't hard to figure out; the person responsible for the fraud obviously counted on the evidence being taken at face value," he explained as they watched Riscan attack his droid servitor. "The footage consists of three distinct layers recorded separately and spliced together into a single image."

He tapped a few keys on his computer that split the recording up between three separate holoprojectors. "What do you think of this?"

The far left simply showed Riscan's prison cell, with its cot against one wall, refresher in the corner, and small table with two chairs across from each other in the middle of the floor. On the far right, Riscan's disembodied head floated above the projector, ghostlike; Orsiri felt a chill run up his spine at the thought of the doctor's zombie-like state while wearing the neural inhibitor.

The image's face responded to every expression borne by the man attacking the droid in the middle display, gnashing his teeth, eyes wild with rage as he brought the serving tray down over and over again. "The recording in the middle is the layer that got flipped around," Dayv explained with a wave of his hand. "The others were left as is."

Orsiri didn't recognize the left-handed man. He was human, bearded, with a tattoo of a firaxan shark on his shaven head. The detective would have to pay another visit to the prison and "persuade" him into revealing just who it was that convinced him to participate in this little scheme.

"Can you put all this on a disk for me?" he asked.

"I already took the liberty," Dayv answered. The images floating above the projectors dissolved as he ejected the disk from his terminal. "Didn't want to leave this lying around my system, just in case."

"Understood," Orsiri said, pocketing the disk. Then, turning to go, he looked back over his shoulder. "Thanks Dayv."

"My pleasure," the tech assured him.

# # #

As it turned out, the double-bandoliered Wookiee standing right beside him offered to guide Ulasac down to the Shadowlands. "Elevator" was too generous a term for the contraption they'd ridden down through the leaves and branches to the forest floor forever shrouded in twilight. It had consisted of a large woven basket attached to a thick vine. When the Jedi had inquired about its strength, his guide—who had introduced himself as Frohitchuk—assured him that the elevator was used to carry much more weight than a single Wookiee and Twi'lek. Furthermore, even if the vine should happen to break, the basket was equipped with emergency repulsorlifts to assure the passengers' safety.

In any case, the ride down had been long and uneventful, and Ulasac had taken the time to probe the surrounding forest with the Force, searching out Tarant's signature. He sensed something he thought he recognized but it was different somehow. Her sense was less… vibrant, as if she'd retreated within herself since coming here.

As Frohitchuk led him through the jungle between the massive wroshyr tree trunks—each a score of meters across, at least—the Wookiee sniffed experimentally at the air. _[We have to be cautious]_, he said in a low growl. _[The Shadowlands are full of katarns and kinrath.]_ He paused. _[And carnivorous plants.]_

Ulasac raised a curious brow at that and took an extra step away from a nearby fern. "Do you know where any Wookiee hunting parties have gone missing down here? Master Tarant was sent to determine the cause."

_[We all know the cause]_, Frohitchuk insisted. _[Trandoshans.]_

The Twi'lek didn't bother arguing; he kept his attention on the ground before him, treading lightly through the brush so as not to be tripped up by an errant tree root, while probing about with tendrils of the Force.

Suddenly Frohitchuk froze and motioned for Ulasac to do the same. The Jedi's hand darted for his lightsaber but the Wookiee caught his wrist and shook his shaggy head. Ulasac's senses had been focused on locating Tarant; now he stretched out with his feelings, looking for danger.

Sure enough, it was all around, to varying degrees of malice. Ulasac's lekku twitched excitedly with anticipation.

He felt the attack coming from the left. Ulasac belly flopped to the forest floor, calling on the Force to lend him strength so that he could drag Frohitchuk down with him as high-energy ACP rounds shredded the foliage around them. The outraged Wookiee howled and tried to climb to his feet but the barrage kept him pinned where he was.

Ulasac, on the other hand, rolled aside, leapt to his feet, and ignited his lightsaber in a single motion. The yellow blade fanned through the air, flawlessly intercepting the particle rounds. _Hmph, is this the best these poachers can come up with?_ he wondered. _Please. I've fought Mandalorians._

As if on cue, someone hurled a grenade from their hiding place and the explosive detonated almost at the Jedi's feet. Ulasac called the Force about him, leaping over the blast and into the midst of a quartet of very surprised Trandoshans. He dispatched the lizards before any of them could bring their weapons to bear.

_[More approaching!]_ Frohitchuk called. Ulasac turned and saw his guide in a kneeling position, bowcaster leveled and braced against his knee.

"Hold you fire," the Jedi hissed and stretched out with the Force. He felt that semi-familiar blandness from before, the one that spoke of self-repression. It was Ren Tarant. "It's the woman I'm looking for."

Frohitchuk refused to lower his weapon but didn't open fire when a slim, pale woman stepped out of the jungle, followed by another Wookiee who howled in greeting. Her robes were filthy and threadbare, and her shoulder-length red hair was matted and plastered to her scalp with sweat; a strip of brown zeyd cloth kept it out of her eyes.

Her eyes.

Ulasac was taken aback at how dead her eyes appeared. Eyes that had once been a vibrant blue, as compassionate and full of life as she herself, were now a dull, lifeless grey.

"Hello Nurt," she said in a cheerful tone that sounded forced to his ears. "I haven't heard from you in a few months." He'd last contacted her when the Miraluka, Shoaneb Zaruul, had been slain.

"I tried to call ahead," he replied, extinguishing his lightsaber and hooking it to his belt. "Too much interference."

"Has he struck again?"

Ulasac nodded. "Kralo, Zabth, and his apprentice."

She sighed and he almost felt a spike in the Force from her, more like a flutter. "That's too bad." Then, she asked, "Where is Kit-Sun?"

"He's gone," Ulasac said with a frown. "He went back to the Temple when I decided to come here."

"Why are you here?"

"This Mandalorian has been allowed to run amok for too long. I intend to lay a trap for him and I want your help. I want your help to punish him for what he's done to us."

He could feel her emotions simmering below the strict control she enforced, building, fomenting. They felt like his own feelings that he didn't keep hidden so well: anger over the death of his former Padawan, hatred for the Mandalorian responsible. Fear for the Jedi yet to be slain.

She'd lost someone special to that despicable murderer too and as the feelings came bubbling up to the surface, life returned to her eyes for the barest of unguarded moments as her hands curled into fists. The forest went strangely silent and their Wookiee companions swept their weapons over the surrounding brush, wary of this abnormality. Trees and ferns and rocks began to shudder, as if of their own accord as emotion came flooding back to her. Tarant squeezed her eyes shut, forcing it back down, and he saw thin rivulets of blood spring from her palms where her nails dug into them. The Wookiees watched in stunned silence.

Then, she heaved a shuddering sigh and opened her eyes again; they were the same dead grey as before, only this time they glistened with unshed tears. "I loved her, you know," she croaked, and sank to her knees, staring at the ground.

Ulasac hadn't, had never even suspected, but he nodded anyway.

"I told her, once, how I felt about her. To my great surprise, she reciprocated, even though it was forbidden. I'd never before felt such joy. And then when you told me Shoaneb was dead, my heart was flooded with boundless grief." She sniffed and dragged the sleeve of her cloak across her face. "It was heartbreaking, even with the Jedi Code to comfort me."

"Sometimes the Code is no comfort at all," he said ruefully.

She nodded. "That's why I ran here. To have something to do besides meditate, to escape those maddening questions about what might have been that kept intruding on my every waking thought. I feared the Council would sense my distress and… take measures."

"Will you help me now?" he asked. "Will you give her justice and prevent further harm to come to Jedi?"

Tarant looked up at him and nodded. "How do you intend to trap him?" she asked.

"If the HoloNet is to be believed, some of his companions have been imprisoned on Coruscant," he answered. "I'm certain he'll try to free them. We simply have to be there when he does."

Tarant nodded. Then, climbing to her feet, she turned to her Wookiee companion. "Nowarrack," she said gently, laying a hand on his long, shaggy arm. "I've done my best to protect your people. Now I must go to protect mine."

The Wookiee, Nowarrack, bent down and gave her a bone-crushing hug, then, straightening back up, put a massive hand on her head and roughly tousled her hair. _[We'll take it from here]_, he said.

She bowed and, before turning to leave with Master Ulasac, said, "May the Force be with you."


	46. Jailbreak

_Is an illegal or immoral act, committed for the greater good, inherently of the dark side?_

Jedi had pondered this question since the dawn of the Order. Did the intention behind such an act matter more than the act itself?

That couldn't be the case because megalomaniacs and mass murderers had been claiming good intentions for millennia. But what of the case of the man who steals to feed his family? Or the soldier who is forced to kill in order to survive during wartime?

Kit-Sun Wolfgana, insecure Jedi Master, now wrestled with his own conscience—he was convinced it was a question of conscience, not merely something academic to be picked apart and interpreted dispassionately. It had to be _felt_, in the Force and in the heart.

He stood before the towering front gate of CoCo Penitentiary, shut his eyes, and took a deep, relaxing breath; the air smelled of imminent rain, an aroma he rather enjoyed for its rarity on the climate controlled city-world of Coruscant. He craned his neck, looking up at the heavy cloud cover that had rolled over the Collective Commerce District, and sighed.

Why was he a Jedi Master? His whole life, he'd been told he was wise beyond his years but he hardly felt it. He questioned everything, lacked the decisiveness of other Jedi. And here he was, about to do something the Council would never have approved of in all the history of the Republic.

But for some inexplicable reason it _felt right_ to commit this illegal—and very probably immoral—act in the name of what he imagined to be the greater good.

Kit-Sun considered for a moment that he may face expulsion from the Jedi Order for what he was about to do. _Well_, he thought, _they threatened Master Jinn enough times and never followed through… Even so, perhaps there could be a place for me among the Kiffar Guardians._

He laughed the thought away, as clear and carefree a sound as a ringing bell, and shook his head. He hadn't even been _born_ on his people's homeworld, let alone felt a connection to it. _But_, he allowed, looking down at his hands—hands that could read the history of any object he touched—_there are some connections that transcend birthplace. Everything is connected through the Force. The Kiffar, the Jedi, the Mandalorians… even the long forgotten Sith; all connected._

Calling the Force to him, Kit-Sun steeled his resolve and strode to the gate, wrapping himself in illusions.

# # #

"This stuff really stinks," muttered one of the prisoners, a bald human with a firaxan shark tattooed on his scalp, just above his right ear. His name was Torm and he'd been sent to CoCo Penitentiary for murdering his sister-in-law and nephew.

"That's how you know it's working," Qate Jularc replied. Their voices were muffled by the filter masks they wore while mopping the floor in the administration wing's office section, under the watchful eye of several prison guards. It was actually a cubicle farm; paper-thin dividers separated row after row of desks to offer the administrators a small measure of privacy from one another. The only actual office belonged to the warden.

Beneath her mask, Qate let a devilish grin spread across her face; no one but her really knew the potential flammability of the cleaning products she was spreading everywhere. She imagined the look on everybody's face with the fireworks started.

The Zabrak demolition specialist had been ferreting away a few deciliters of various solvents and solutions here and there, hiding them in her cell to use in an escape attempt. She'd worked with plenty of more sophisticated devices but using common household cleaners gave her immense satisfaction. It was their unassuming nature that she enjoyed; most sentients had no idea that they were sitting on top of a veritable powder keg in their kitchen.

She dunked her mop into the bucket and continued spreading the harsh-smelling liquid. The mixture she'd whipped up in it had roughly the same properties as napalm and would linger on the floors for several days before eventually evaporating and needing to be reapplied. The addition of another particular chemical—one she'd stashed away for later use—would ignite it, sending a firestorm flashing through the prison offices in the blink of an eye.

"What's with the bug-face?" Torm asked, nodding at Qate's Gand friend, Maalku. He stood in a corner, shoulders hunched, swiping a rag across a desk over and over again, trying to look busy.

Qate frowned. He'd been like that for a few days, ever since that Jedi, Kit-Sun, had paid her a visit. He hadn't said a word about what was bothering him either; she'd simply taken it for his usual enigmatic behavior.

Maybe he'd gotten even more preoccupied with his visions?

She shrugged her shoulders. "Won't tell me," she said. "But keep calling him that and you'll be fishing your teeth out of my mop water, _ner vod_." She threw in the Mando'a to remind him of what she was; the Mandalorians' reputation helped end a lot of potential fights before they started in the pen and established her as someone with no love for the Republic among the other prisoners. That alone had greased to wheels in her preparations.

Mopping her way over to Maalku, Qate nudged the findsman and asked, "What's wrong? You've been acting strange… er than usual."

Maalku's chitinous head snapped up and he fixed his large, compound eyes on her. "This Gand is sorry," he buzzed through the vocoder embedded in his breathing apparatus. "There has been much on his mind lately."

Qate stopped mopping and raised a quizzical eyebrow. "What do you mean, 'this Gand'?"

He hung his head shamefully and his nictitating membranes half lidded his eyes. "The _ruetsavii_ came and took this Gand's name for bringing shame to his people. He is exiled from Gand."

That just confused Qate even more. "Took your name? Your name is Maalku Tekot."

"No longer." His response sounded like a dawn out electronic moan. "I—this Gand is shamed for helping Thernbee."

Now Qate frowned. "Like _haran_ you are. What we did was right." She put a hand on his knobby insectoid shoulder. "You think anyone else would have stuck by him like we did? Gone out on a limb for him like we did?"

"No."

"And _that's_ what makes what we did right," she hissed. "You saw what kind of shape he was in. He needed help, not prison."

His head bobbed up and down and, his voice still unsure, he said, "Yes."

"Hey!" one of the guards escorting them in the administration wing barked. "Keep working! This isn't social hour."

"_Lo'shebs'ul narit, shabuir_," Qate snarled at the guard and started pushing her mop around again.

Then, turning back to Maalku, who'd continued wiping down the desktop, she said, "No one can take the great things you've done away from you."

"But they have," he replied, modulating his vocoder so his voice was barely a whisper.

"No," the Zabrak insisted. "They haven't. You're supposed to be the sage one here; you figure it out."

"This Gand is shamed, thus he is not worthy of a name."

"How'd you get your name in the first place?"

"During a spiritual pilgrimage into the salt flats of Gand, this Gand rediscovered the lost tomb of Zetii Qufuu Nenydjir Qa'a, the First Findsman long revered by this Gand's people."

"That's quite a mouthful."

"You know how important names are to Gands," he shrugged. "It's only appropriate that he have no less than four.

"Eons ago, the Gand people were scattered across the land in disparate tribes, ignorant of what the mists truly held for them. King Zetii pioneered the art of reading omens in the mist, achieving a prescient understanding of the universe and foreseeing in exact detail every event that would take place over the course of his lifetime. The mists had revealed to him his life's sacred duty to locate his wayward people and raise them up onto the path of enlightenment. According to legend, after uniting all Gands across the world into a single collective nation, the great king had, at the antediluvian age of a hundred and thirty two, himself wandered out into the desert according to his vision. There he left his earthly carapace behind to become one with the mists."

Qate simply nodded. Plenty of people had their own "great king" myths.

"Inside the tomb, this Gand found the Mist Dial of Gand, the very device King Zetii had used to read the future."

"Valuable?" she asked.

"Very," he answered. "It's a solid gold disk etched with pictographs and symbolic inscriptions arranged in concentric rings about the circumference.

She let out a low whistle. "That must've been heavy."

"Oh it was." His vocoder let out several short bursts of static, an electronic chuckle. "At least thirty kilos."

Qate's eyes boggled. _Thirty kilos of solid _gold_?_ Had to be a legend… or an exaggeration. Then, composing herself, she said, "That's an amazing thing you did, Maalku."

"Yes," he nodded wistfully. "It was. That's how this Gand earned his name."

"And they'll never be able take that accomplishment away from you," she said firmly.

# # #

Doctor Anakef Andin's mind raced as he tore his office apart. Patient files lay strewn across the floor, alongsidecabinet drawers ripped from their tracks and upended in his mad search.

_Where is it? I can't have misplaced it!_

The holodisk containing Riscan's assault on the service droid had gone missing after Detective Orsiri had viewed it. _He couldn't have taken it_, the psychiatrist kept telling himself, but with each passing minute, it seemed more and more likely.

Each. Passing. Minute.

Andin's head whirled around to the chrono mounted on the wall.

He was supposed to present the holorecording to the judge this afternoon, to evince that Riscan was fit only for a padded cell in his psych ward, but the blasted disk had gone _missing_!

_I'm going to be late_, he thought, horror-stricken. Frustrated, he grabbed a glowlamp from the desk and hurled it; the small luminous sphere shattered spectacularly against the wall, adding more debris to the ransacked office.

Andin turned to the small window and looked out over the blocks of uniform skyscrapers, so plain and undistinguished. This was to be the most important case of his life; he was finally to have everlasting revenge on the man who'd doomed him to this pathetic, obscure existence. But without that disk, he'd be forced to remain as those thousands of unimportant buildings out there: overlooked and unremarkable.

He balled his fists on the windowsill, then punched the transparisteel in frustration. It wasn't fair! His knuckles bounced off with barely a thud and he hissed and sucked on the abused joints, cursing under his breath.

It was no use. He'd have to go to the courthouse and try to make his case without the recording.

Andin took a moment to compose himself, adjusting his sport jacket and mopping the sweat from his brow, before grabbing his briefcase and quietly stepping out into the hall.

# # #

"Something I can do for you, Pakric?" Prefect Zarms asked.

Detective Orsiri stood before his desk in the warden's office, shoulders slouched, hands buried in his pockets. It wasn't slovenliness that affected his posture; he'd carefully orchestrated the stance as a means of keeping one hand on the concealed holodisk for safekeeping. "I need to speak with one of the prisoners," he said. Then, slightly cocking an eyebrow, he added, "Somewhat off the record."

The prefect nodded. "Who'd you have in mind?"

"Light-skinned human," Orsiri answered, "bald and bearded, with a firaxan shark tattoo on the right side of his head."

"Ah, Torm Pantrakahs." Zarms tapped a few keys on the datapad to bring up the prisoner's file. "Convicted on two counts of first-degree murder. Violent but mentally fit." He offered a code cylinder.

"Sounds about right," Orsiri said, taking it.

"I assume you don't want an escort?"

"You assume right, sir."

"Mind telling me what this is about?"

"The Riscan case." Before Zarms could question him further, the detective retreated through the office door.

Out in the administration wing, he wound his way through the maze of bland, identical cubicles. The air stank of cleaning solvents; an inmate cleaning crew must have been up here recently. Forcing air out through his nostrils, Orsiri took shallow breaths to try to avoid the acrid smell. His fingers wrapped around the holodisk in his pocket, pressing the plastoid casing into his flesh.

_Torm Pantrakahs_, he thought. He looked at the code cylinder in his other hand; it was half-again the length of his index finger and had "Cellblock Tau/Cell# 8311" stenciled on it. With his attention focused entirely on the object in his hand, he didn't notice the Bothan walking the other way.

"Sorry," the small, hirsute being mumbled as they collided, spinning the detective partway around. Before Orsiri could gather his wits to reply, the Bothan had already swung around one of the cubicles and was out of sight.

Shaking his head, Orsiri continued on his way.

# # #

Kit-Sun entered the prison through the staff entrance, proceeding confidently to the front desk as he held up a blank piece of flimsi. The sergeant on duty glanced up at it, then at the Jedi's face, and nodded him on before returning to his holozine.

The desk sergeant had seen an ordinary, clean-cut human male in a guard's uniform, bearing the proper credentials to gain entrance to the prison facility. It was his true talent in the Force, manipulating the perceptions of others, making them see and hear and even _smell_ things that weren't really there.

He passed other guards making their rounds, not drawing their attention. _Just act like you belong_, he told himself, focusing on his false appearance.

His plan was deceptively simple. Report to the block chief that he was there to transport a prisoner to an appearance at court, show him a datapad that appeared legitimate, and then take her to his waiting transport. Simple.

But of course, the Force was seldom simple.

"You there!"

Kit-Sun froze. He turned slowly and spotted a genuine guard trotting up to him, stun baton drawn. The Jedi took a deep breath, calling on the Force, ready to act while maintaining his illusion.

"A fight's broken out in gen-pop," the approaching guard puffed. "They need everyone available down there to subdue the cons."

Kit-Sun mentally sighed in relief. "I can't," he said. "I have other orders."

"This comes from the warden," the guard protested, his brow furrowing. "All other orders are superseded. Now come on." He reached out to grab the Jedi's arm and pull him along.

_Oh no_, Kit-Sun thought as his hand closed around the crook of his elbow. The moment the guard made physical contact, his illusion dropped and he became a Jedi Master again.

The guard's eyes widened and he gaped in shock. He managed a surprised, "Wha—" before Kit-Sun slammed him against the duraplast wall. He slumped to the floor, unconscious, and the Jedi knelt down beside him, placing a hand over his fluttering eyes.

_Forget everything you saw_, he thought into the guard's mind. Kit-Sun sighed and frowned. Standing, he wondered why things never seemed to go smoothly. Then he called out to the Force and wrapped himself in illusions once more.

Eventually he found the turbolift that brought him to the cellblock he was looking for. The block chief looked up from his security monitor and asked, "Security badge and orders?"

Kit-Sun obliged with his blank flimsi and datapad. "Prisoner One-Seven-Two-Nine-Four-Alpha's being called before the judge," he said, subtly impressing the words upon the block chief.

The sergeant nodded and waved in the general direction of the cell bays. "Have fun with that one. She's been in and out of solitary the whole time she's been here."

"Great," the Jedi said, making a show of sounding dejected as he passed the security desk and made his way down the narrow row of detention cells.

# # #

Qate lay on her cot, wiling away the time. She worried about Maalku. The poor Gand had been seriously disturbed by the visit from the _ruetsavii_, as he called them. Meritocracy was all well and good, but to strip sentient beings of all self-worth so that they didn't even have an identity? That just sounded awful to her.

_Mando'ade_ were hard-and-fast individualists; she figured that was why not many insectoid species had ever joined them. Even so, something had to be done about the funk Maalku had found himself in. It was more than just the loss of status; Qate knew he wasn't that petty.  
Hopefully he'd take her advice and forge ahead because she was also worried about Ganhuff. They hadn't seen him once since they'd arrive at CoCo Penitentiary, not even when they'd finagled themselves a visit to the medical wing.

Suddenly the lock on her cell door clicked open, breaking the silence in the room. Qate's eyes darted to the door and she sat up as a prison guard stepped in with a broad smile on his face. _What the…?_

Then the guard shimmered and dissolved, replaced by the Jedi, Wolfgana, with that same broad grin spread across his tattooed features. "I'm Kit-Sun Wolfgana and I'm here to rescue you," he said enthusiastically.

"What?"

He held out a pair of binders. "I don't have much time to explain," he said, dropping the cheerful façade. "Put those on, I'm going to try to get you out of here. I have a transport waiting."

She eyed the binders suspiciously. Was it a trick, one of his twisted illusion games? Or was she being taken into Jedi custody now? "Why?" she demanded.

His body shimmered and he became the prison guard again. "I need your help," he said, peering out into the corridor. "Please. I'm defying the Council to try to save lives, including Buruk's."

Qate frowned. It was probably a trick. Still, she wasn't likely to get another chance to escape as good as this one. "Alright," she said, placing her hands in the binders, making certain she disabled the locking mechanism first so she could get out of them quickly; she never much liked breaking her thumb just to escape a pair of cuffs.

Then, leaning over the refresher, she lifted the lid off the tank and slipped several hundred-milliliter bottles into her orange jumpsuit.

"What are those?" the Jedi asked.

"Just a few parting gifts for this _osik'palon_," she replied with a feral grin.

Wolfgana had her lead the way to the turbolift. On the way past the security desk, she turned a murderous look at the block chief, just for effect.

When the lift doors hissed shut behind them, Qate's pseudo-guard pressed the button for the prison's main floor.

"What do you think you're doing?" she asked.

"Getting us out of here?" he ventured a guess, raising his eyebrows.

"I'm not leaving without Maalku and Ganhuff."

Wolfgana frowned. Qate frowned right back at him.

"It'll strain my use of the Force to disguise all of you," he said. "I may not be able to maintain the illusion."

"That's what your lightsaber's for," she growled. "They're my friends. We leave them, you can forget about me helping you."

He sighed and reached for the control panel. "Where are they located?"

# # #

On his way to the parking garage, Andin spotted Orsiri rounding a corner, headed for the east turbolift bay. _What is he doing back here?_ he wondered anxiously. He swallowed past a lump in his throat and glanced nervously down at his chrono.

_I could try to get the holodisk back…_

He turned from the garage entrance and stole after the detective. Turning the corner, Andin spotted his quarry waiting before the lifts, tapping his foot, with one hand in his pocket and looking at his chrono. The psychiatrist took a deep breath to calm his nerves and strolled cheerfully up to wait beside him.

"Good day, Detective," he said brightly. He suspected the disk was in the same pocket as his hand and he had to force himself not to stare at it. "What brings you back here so soon?"

Orsiri looked up at him and said, "Needed to talk to one of the inmates. It's for a case I'm working on."

_He knows!_ "Might I inquire as to whom?" Casually, Andin slipped his hands into his own pockets to hide them from shaking too nervously. His right hand brushed against the plastoid stylus he used for his datapad. It was long and thin, tapered to a point at one end.

When one of the turbolift's doors parted, they stepped inside, one after the other.

"I'm afraid I can't say, Doctor," Orsiri answered as he reached for the control panel.

_He definitely knows!_ "Are you certain? We could dredge up this miscreant's file; perhaps give you some extra leverage in wringing information out of him." He wrapped his fingers around the stylus, rubbing his thumb over its tip.

"That won't be necessary," the detective assured him. "I just have to confront him with some new evidence." He patted his hip pocket.

"Very well then," Andin breathed, and with speed born of obsession and desperation, he drove the tip of the stylus into Orsiri's throat.

The detective's eyes bulged in surprise and he gagged as blood spurted out around the thin piece of plastoid. Andin withdrew the stylus and plunged it in again, this time with more accuracy, and pierced his carotid artery. Orsiri raised his hands to ward off his attacker but his movement was sluggish, he'd already lost too much blood. He slumped against the turbolift wall and slid down to a sitting position, gurgling. At last, the light went out of his eyes and his head lolled to one side.

Andin stepped back and inspected his suit. To his great surprise, he hadn't a drop on him. He let out a shuddering laugh. Such a stroke of fortune!

The psychiatrist reached over and hit the stop button on the control panel, then knelt down beside his victim's body and pulled the holodisk from his pocket. "You shouldn't have taken it," he hissed at the corpse as he stood and inserted the disk into his datapad. The hologram shimmered to life thirty centimeters above the device.

Andin's heart stopped.

It wasn't his faked Riscan footage. It was simply an image of an armored being with a T-shaped visor giving him a rude gesture.

Andin dropped his datapad and started rifling through Orsiri's pockets, repeating the maddened search of his office on the dead man. It wasn't there. _Where is it?_ he wondered desperately. Standing, he shrieked at the corpse, "Why don't you have it?"

Of course no answer came.

This was wrong, all wrong. There was no hope for him now, nothing he could do. The detective's body would be found and security footage would show Andin boarding the turbolift with him and exiting without him. It was all over. Doomed to a life confined in obscurity, routine, and uniformity.

_It's worse than that_, he realized, looking at his chrono and feeling something snap inside him. _Now I'm really late._

He snorted. Ganhuff Riscan had once again ruined his life. There was only one way for him to have any sort of revenge on the bastard now. He reached over and pressed the button for the medical wing.

# # #

Qate had seen many strange things in her life and had heard of Jedi doing even stranger things than that, but nothing had prepared her for what Wolfgana had shown her outside Maalku's cell. She'd expected to have to slice the lock electronically or cut the door open completely with the lightsaber. To her surprise, the Jedi simply placed the palm of his hand over the locking mechanism, closed his eyes, and it opened as if of its own accord.

When he opened his eyes again, he looked at her and, by way of explanation, said, "Through the Force, anything is possible."

"Well, would it be _possible_ to drop our disguises out here so he doesn't have the same reaction I did?"

"Fair enough," he said. She didn't notice any change in her own appearance but saw him revert back from his guard form as he opened the door.

Maalku sat cross-legged, facing the door, in the center of the room with his three-fingered hands folded in his lap. His nictitating membranes slid away from his multifaceted eyes and he said, "The Fox…" He peered over Wolfgana's shoulder at Qate. "And the Shepherd. This Gand never expected you to become allies."

"Come on," Qate motioned him to them. "We're getting out of here."

"This Gand cannot," he said with a shake of his chitinous head. "To escape confinement would be a greater shame."

Wolfgana actually recoiled at the Zabrak's outburst. "For the last _shabla_ time," she roared, "your name is Maalku Tekot and you did nothing to be ashamed of!" The Gand didn't even flinch.

The Jedi cleared his throat. "Maalku," he said more gently, "I understand that you did what you did to save a friend, because you knew it was the right thing to do. I'm helping you escape so I can save _my_ friend, even though I'm very likely going to be expelled from the Jedi Order for my actions. The consequences don't change the fact that it's the right thing. You have to look beyond the self and listen to the Force. Ganhuff still needs your help."

Maalku lowered his head and considered for a few moments. Qate could hear his mouthparts working behind his breath mask, making muted clicking sounds like an old style revolving slug thrower. At last, he looked up and said, "You speak wisely, Fox. This Gand—Maalku—should have known that. I am what I have done and what I have done is who I am; the Elders can no more take my name away from me than they can rebury King Zetii Qufuu Nenydjir Qa'a's tomb."

He picked himself up off the floor and stepped out through the door. "Come," he buzzed. "Let us rescue Thernbee and be gone from this place."

"Now you're talking," Qate said with a grin, slapping him on the back.

Wolfgana squeezed his eyes shut as he concentrated. His breath came slowly, forcefully so. It looked to Qate like casting so many different illusions simultaneously was beginning to take a toll on him.

"Tank going dry?" she asked as they piled back into the cellblock turbolift.

"Almost tapping my reserve power," he replied with a self-deprecating smile, breathing a little heavier than normal.

"Would it help if you dropped our cover while we're out of sight?"

He shook his head. "It takes less energy to maintain than to start and stop."

"A slippery slope, like teaching rutabagas to tap dance in the starlight," Maalku offered sagely. The Jedi gave him a perplexed look.

"Don't ask," Qate told him with a chuckle. "That just means he's back to normal."

# # #

Andin opened the door to Riscan's padded cell. As always, the disgraced surgeon sat in the corner with his arms hanging limply at his sides, his hazel eyes staring off into space. A neural inhibitor locked around his neck kept him subdued. He couldn't move, could barely even think, while its happy blue lights blinked away, indicating that it was functioning.

Andin smiled and pulled out the scalpel he'd taken from the medical wing's supply room along the way. It was a simple durasteel blade, with no vibro or laser technology to ensure a quick, clean cut. Riscan would die painfully.

He'd confronted Riscan with his victims for hours every day since imprisoning him here in the psychiatric ward, forced him to look at their bodies, their families and loved ones, filled his ears with stories of who they'd been and what their lives had been like before malpractice had cut their lives short.

Riscan could see and hear everything and couldn't shut it out, couldn't look away, no matter how much he might have wanted to. Andin had hoped to drive him mad.

_He deserved it_, he thought as he approached, scalpel in hand. _He deserves to endure it forever. Too bad._ Andin knelt down beside the vulnerable doctor and pressed the blade lightly against the side of Riscan's neck, looking into his dull, staring eyes.

"Dying's too good for you, after what you did," he murmured.

Behind him, the cell door hissed open and Andin rose with a start, dropping the scalpel as he turned. In the doorway were three prison guards, too men and a woman, all staring at him incredulously. He stared back in horror.

One of the male guards thrust his hand forward and the next thing Andin knew, he'd been slammed flat on his back beside Riscan, knocking the wind from him. _What the…?_ He lay there gasping for air as the guards approached and gathered around his prisoner. _Was that… the Force?_

He looked over in time to see the three guards shimmer and dissolve into three entirely different beings, a Zabrak woman, human male, and a Gand.

"It's a neural inhibitor," the Zabrak was saying. "Locked on and keeping him paralyzed."

The human took out a lightsaber and ignited the blue blade with a _snap-hiss_. A Jedi? "I can try cutting it off," he suggested.

The Zabrak grabbed the Jedi's wrist. "No-no-no-no." She gesture with two fingers. "It's got these little prongs on the back embedded into his spinal cord. You do that and it'll _shab'rud'kaysh_ good."

"Okay," the Jedi said, shutting down the lightsaber and setting it aside. "I'm going to pretend I understood that and say that'd be a bad thing."

"Your Jedi insight is amazing," she said dryly.

Instead of replying, the Jedi laid his hand on the device around Riscan's throat.

_No_, Andin thought. _Can't let him get away._

The lightsaber lay within his reach. Forcing his aching body to move, he snatched it up and flicked the activation switch. Its blue blade shot out between Riscan and the Jedi, centimeters from either of them. All eyes were instantly on the psychiatrist again and he felt a surge of triumph at having gained their attention.

"I won't let him escape this time," Andin declared. "He has to pay for what he's done!" The Jedi and his companions backed slowly away and Andin stepped between them and Riscan. "You have no idea the life I've gone through because of him, the humiliation I've endured."

"What has he done to you?" the Jedi asked calmly, holding his hands up in a placating gesture.

Andin gaped at him. How could they not know? How could they not _see_ it? Why would no one understand?

He quivered with anger, saw the tip of the lightsaber wobble before him. He forced his voice to remain low, wouldn't give them the satisfaction of becoming flustered. "I missed the most important exam of my life at university," he bit out. "They wouldn't accept late arrivals. I was forced to repeat my entire final year."

The two aliens gawked at him like idiots, uncomprehending, while the Jedi solemnly closed his eyes.

"Don't you realize how that looks on a resume?" he demanded, his voice breaking slightly. "Why do you think I ended up in this dead-end position, assessing the mental competency of lowly prisoners? No one else would hire me! I was practically blackballed; I couldn't even open my own practice! Because he _made me late_!"

Something clicked behind him and the Jedi's eyes snapped open. "Don't!" he cried, taking a step forward, and Andin suddenly felt something sharp stab him in the back.

He let out a startled, "Guh!" and someone supported his weight as he slowly sank to his knees. The lightsaber fell from his slack fingers and extinguished itself before it hit the padded floor.

Then, as those gentle hands eased him down on his stomach, Andin heard a familiar voice speak in his ear. "Strange, you almost can't feel it." Andin tried to move but those hands held him down, kept him immobile. "No," the voice said, "don't move. The scalpel is still in you, the blade right between the kidney and the spleen. Just a twitch, and…"

Andin expected to feel the scalpel twist in him, but the only thing he felt was a lifting of the weight holding him down. He looked up to see Riscan stumbling toward his saviors while the Jedi retrieved the fallen lightsaber. The Zabrak woman threw his arm across her shoulders and bore his weight effortlessly. Riscan looked back at him with cold, hateful eyes. "Never make enemies with a man who has expert anatomical knowledge, you petty _shab'la nibral_," he said. "Keep still and you shouldn't bleed out for maybe four hours."

Tears filled Andin's eyes as he watched them go. It was all over for him now. He'd lost everything. He was ruined once and for all.

_No_, he thought desperately. He still had a choice. Ganhuff Riscan, the man he'd hated for so many years for condemning him to this prison, had given him a way out. With a burst of effort, Andin thrashed his body about, dragging the knife in his back across vital organs. He cried out as pain shot through him, then he laid still, closed his eyes for the last time, and waited for the darkness to claim him.

# # #

Kit-Sun's reserves of the Force were empty. Now that he could no longer maintain his illusions, they were forced to fall back on Qate's cruder methods of escape. "Which way?" he asked, following behind the group, watching their backs.

"Through that wall," she pointed to the end of the corridor where it branched off at a t-junction. Except for a single window, too small for any of them to squeeze through, it was bare duracrete.

"It'll take me some time to cut through," he said.

"Don't bother," she said, reaching into her jumpsuit and extracting two bottles.

"Are you crazy?" the Jedi demanded. "You're liable to bring the whole ceiling down on our heads!"

"Never happen," Qate assured him, removing the bottle caps and securing them mouth-to-mouth with a strip of mesh tape. "That window means it's not a load-bearing wall. Trust me." She shook the two bottles so their chemicals mixed, then rolled them to the base of the wall. "Just cover your ears."

In seconds, the bottles burst, blasting a ragged hole clean through the wall, exposing twisted durasteel rebar and hurling debris in all directions. "That should get us some attention," she laughed, then jerked her thumb at the daylight pouring into the corridor. "_In, in, in!_"

One after the other, they climbed through the breach and emerged in the courtyard. Sirens blared and they raced across the open field. Guards opened fire from the watchtowers lining the wall ninety meters away as they ran.

Kit-Sun ignited his lightsaber and batted the blaster bolts away, drawing on reserves of the Force he didn't know were there. Behind them, more guards fired from the hole they'd blasted in the wall. He spun, giving himself over even more to the Force, surrendering his will to it entirely. It guided his hands, directing to blade so it intercepted each shot in turn, as the world slowed around him.

Someone in a tower launched teargas canisters. With a wave of his hand, Kit-Sun sent them hurling across the courtyard into the hole in the wall. That would cut off that particular lane of attack.

"I do hope you have a transport standing by," Riscan said as he stumbled along on wobbly legs while Qate continued to support him.

"Here." Kit-Sun's voice was strained as he concentrated on channeling what remained of his Force reserve into deflecting more blaster fire. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a beckon call, offering it up to one of them. Maalku took it and stabbed the button with a finger.

When they reached the wall, Kit-Sun placed himself between them and their attackers. Guards were leapfrogging across the open courtyard now, advancing tactically as they covered each other's approaches. "Get behind me, get behind me!" he ordered.

Qate set to work with the last of her chemical bombs, taping the bottled together and shaking them up before taping them directly the duracrete surface. "_Ke hukaatir!_ Take cover!" she shouted and threw herself away from the wall, wrapping her arms around her horned head to protect it. Kit-Sun and the others did likewise before a blast, more powerful than the first, ripped through the outer wall.

Out of the sky swooped the Jedi's transport from the Temple Hangars. "Go!" he urged, dropping his lightsaber defense and sprinting for the oncoming ship. Qate took Riscan in a fireman's carry and somehow kept pace despite the added weight, while Maalku brought up the rear.

Once they were aboard, Riscan—still draped over Qate's shoulders—slapped the control to raise the boarding ramp and Kit-Sun ran for the cockpit to blast away from the prison. He could hear blaster bolts pinging ineffectually off the ship's hull as they rocketed into the air, leaving CoCo Penitentiary and eventually Coruscant far behind.

When at last they broke out of the planet's gravity well, Kit-Sun pulled back on the control and the stars stretched out before his eyes. Then, with a flicker of pseudomotion, the transport leapt forward into hyperspace.


End file.
